


Words Unwritten

by SuePokorny



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 11:25:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 23,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7047730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuePokorny/pseuds/SuePokorny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How hard must it have been for Aramis to say good bye to the children?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Home is Where the Heart Is

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first in a series of missing scenes, codas and episode inspired one-shots from season 3. Since the first ep has premiered in the UK, I now feel safe to post them. Some are beta’d by the wonderful Sharlot, some are not since I don’t want to overload the poor dear. She has enough work to do. ☺ . Some are just things I thought were missing or wished were explained. I have a few in the works – they won’t all be in episode order, but we’ll start at the beginning since everyone has now seen it. (or mostly everyone!) Hope you enjoy!

_Episode 1 – Spoils of War_

**Home is Where the Heart Is**

“You’re leaving us?”

Aramis exchanged a look with Athos, his joy at being reunited with his brothers tempered by the sorrow in the little girl’s eyes. With a pat to his friend’s shoulder, Aramis crouched down in front of Mary, his hand caressing the child’s soft cheek.

“I ‘m afraid I must. I’ve been hiding from who I truly am far too long.”

“Who will take care of us?”

Aramis squeezed his eyes shut as a tear tracked through the fine layer of dirt on her face.

“The monks will make sure you grown up safe and happy, little one. I promise.” He forced a smile onto his lips, hoping she would not see how much her reaction was breaking him. He had grown quite fond of the little ones under his charge these last few years – a fierce sense of protectiveness and love he believed he would never feel again. But after the skirmish against the Spanish, he knew he could no longer stay. This was not where he should be.

He’d been lying to himself – to God – all this time. He didn’t belong here despite his convictions and beliefs. He was a soldier. No matter how difficult it would be to return to that life, to be close to those he left behind, he could see no other path for himself other than the one he’d tried so desperately to forget.

“But who will protect us?”

Aramis sighed and dropped his eyes, unsure of how to respond. His heart was being torn in two different directions. He knew his life was best served protecting France as a Musketeer, but it was obvious the monks were not capable of doing what was necessary to protect themselves and the children with the war so close. He shuddered to think what might have happened if he had not been there, if his friends had not come along to confront the thieves and secret the innocents to safety. Could he truly abandon them all for his own selfish needs?

Before he could respond, Luke stepped forward, crouching down beside him. The lad placed a hand on Mary’s arm and squeezed it tight. “I will,” he promised with more maturity and conviction than Aramis had ever heard from him before. “Aramis has taught me all I need to know. I will protect you all.”

Mary looked from Luke back to Aramis, hope dawning in her bright blue eyes.

Aramis swallowed the lump in his throat, overwhelmed by the pride he felt for the boy beside him. He smiled at Mary.

“You will be all right.”

He shifted his gaze to Luke as the boy stood, taking the little girl by the hand.

“We will,” he vowed as Aramis rose. The boy leveled his shoulders, standing tall before his former tutor and held out his hand. “I swear it.”

Aramis smiled and took the boy’s hand in his own before pulling him into a firm embrace. “Goodbye, Luke,” he whispered, placing a kiss on the boys hair. “Always go with God.”

Luke pulled back, his eyes bright. “And you, Aramis of the King’s Musketeers.”

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

“Are you all right?”

Athos pulled his horse alongside Aramis’ breaking the silence they’d kept since leaving the monastery hours ago.

“No,” the former monk confessed. “I miss them already. But I know I don’t belong there. Perhaps I never really did.”

Athos could hear the guilt in his old friend’s tone, but was unsure if it was leaving the monastery or taking refuge in it to begin with that had triggered the emotion.

“You did a good thing, Aramis. Caring for them. Teaching them. You gave them something to hold on to when their entire world was shattered beyond repair. That’s something to be proud of.” It was obvious Aramis was torn between the two worlds he had found himself a part of. The children had relied on his strength, his compassion. So much had already been taken from them, and he knew they would grieve the loss of the one person they had grown to trust, but Athos could not regret Aramis’ decision to return to them. There had been a hole inside them these last four years. A hole that could only be filled by the man whose absence had created it to begin with.

“It is. I only wish…” Aramis struggled to put his thoughts into words. Athos waited patiently, knowing his friend would find a way to verbalize the thoughts that must be running rampant inside his mind.

“I’m glad I was able to be there for them, I am, but I wish I had been there for the three of you.”

Athos dipped his head, hiding his smile from the others. He had been relieved when Porthos and Aramis had returned to the monastery, laughing, arms entwined, their easy camaraderie once again surfacing. It had taken the big Musketeer a while to forgive his friend for leaving them, but Porthos could no more remain angry with Aramis than the sun could fall from the sky. Athos had told him to give Porthos time. It seemed time was something they would all need to mend their wounds.

“You were,” he assured him, his voice soft. “Whenever the battle overwhelmed us, tried to take our resolve, we would remember that you were still alive, safe, and that no matter our fate, through you we would live on.”

“You were always in the forefront of my mind,” Aramis admitted. “Even when the Abbot chided me about the stories I told the children about the Musketeers, instructing me to let go of the past, I found I could not stop thinking of you all, wondering where you were, if you were safe.”

“You told the children of us, but you never told them who you really were. Why?”

Aramis shrugged, his gaze trained on the road before them. “They needed to feel safe. Like the war could no longer touch them. Having a Musketeer – former Musketeer – as their primary care giver did not seem like such a good idea.”

“Yet you told them stories about us.”

Aramis grinned as he ducked his head, glancing at Athos from the corner of his eye. “I needed to entertain them somehow. But perhaps the intent was more selfish than anything.”

“How so?”

“Telling them about you kept you all close. My memories were all I had – all I believed I would ever have. Despite the Abbot’s encouragement, I couldn’t let them go. Perhaps that was why he believed me unworthy of taking my vows.” 

“You can’t change who you are, Aramis. You’re one of us, whether you are on the battlefield or behind the gates of a monastery.”

Aramis nodded slowly, his smile tempered by the sadness of loss. “I know that now. I am just sorry it took me so long to come to that conclusion.”

Athos reached across and laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “As long as you’ve figured it out, I believe we can deal with everything else.” 

He kicked his horse and caught up with the others, pleased to find Aramis’ mount right beside him. Exactly where he belonged.

_Fin_


	2. Back in the Swing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There wasn't much about The Hunger that inspired me to write a missing scene, but I did find one part amusing.

**Episode 2 – The Hunger**

**Back in the Swing of Things**

“I thought you were watching her!” Athos rounded on Aramis as soon as they were clear of the tavern. They had barely made it out with their lives, Sylvie’s sudden arrival turning an already tense situation worse.

“She is right here, you know!” Sylvie interjected, standing, hands on hips in the middle of the dark street.

Athos turned to her, visibly attempting to control his anger. He did not know the woman well, but he could not condone her actions despite sympathizing with her motives. “You could’ve been killed. I understand your emotion, but I cannot be responsible for allowing you to be put in harm’s way.” 

“Well, technically she did that on her own.”

Athos slowly turned back to Aramis, the marksman having the sense to back up a step in the face of the Captain’s wrath. 

“I left her in your charge, Aramis.” Athos lowered his voice so it was no longer ringing through the deserted street, but it was still sharp enough to cut, and he intended for it to draw blood. “Would you care to explain how a woman in your custody managed to barge into a room full of armed guards brandishing your pistol?” His volume rose as his ire got the better of him once again. He knew – and accepted -- that Aramis never was very good at obeying commands, but he assumed this one was something the marksman should’ve been able to handle.

Aramis shrugged, unrepentant. “She kissed me.”

“She – “ Athos’ mind blanked at the admission. “She what?”

“She kissed me.”

Athos steadfastly ignored the snickers coming from the other two Musketeers, narrowing his eyes at Aramis as if he were speaking in tongues. 

“And that excuses this how?”

Aramis sighed, tilting his head back as if the answers were painted in the stars. “I was caught off guard, all right?” He returned his gaze to the Captain, a bit of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. “It’s been a while.”

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

The marksman pulled his hat off and ran a hand through his hair. “I haven’t been that close to a woman for four years, Athos. I was… unprepared.”

“You,” Athos scoffed, his brows rising at the implication. “Disarmed by a kiss?” 

“There’s a first time for everything.”

“Unbelievable.”

Unable to hold his tongue any longer, Porthos approached, chuckling openly, and laid a supportive hand on Aramis’ back. “Come on, Athos. Give the poor monk a break. It’s not like he had a lot of opportunities in a monastery.”

Sylvie pointed toward Aramis, her eyes wide in amazement. “He’s a monk?”

“Ex-monk,” Aramis clarified with a slight bow. “It was… a temporary distraction.” 

She smiled, her eyes sparkling in the low light of the moon. “You don’t kiss like a monk.”

Porthos let out a deep, rumbling laugh as Aramis returned her smile with the flourish of a more formal bow.

Athos rubbed at the space between his eyes. “How am I going to explain this to Treville?”

d’Artagnan stepped up to the Captain’s side, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.” His smirk mirrored Porthos’, his earlier anger at the Captain of the Red Guard forgotten in the face of his friends’ familiar banter. “You always do.”

Fin


	3. The Big Bang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exlosions? Pfft. They're Musketeers.

_This isn’t much, but I couldn’t get past them being blown up and then immediately being just fine. So… not so fine, but determined._

**Episode 3: Brothers in Arms**

**The Big Bang**

Porthos took a deep breath as he came back to his senses, coughing as the thick smoke filled his lungs. He blinked hard, his eyes burning. Slowly his memory caught up and he remembered the flash that had gone off directly in front of them, the ear-splitting sound of the explosion drowning all sound, throwing him back against something too soft to be the brick wall or wooden steps they had just descended.

Breathing shallowly, he realized he was lying on the ground, dirt and rocks pressing into his cheek. His ears rang in the aftermath of the blast, his head feeling as if it would roll off his shoulders at any moment. 

“Aramis?” He opened his eyes, but the smoke and dust were too thick to see through. His friend had been right beside him when they’d come down the stairs and Porthos moved his arms, searching the ground around him for a sign.

“Porthos?”

The big man recognized d’Artagnan’s voice despite the choked off cough and pushed himself from his prone position, balancing on his hands and knees as his lungs forcefully expelled the smoke he’d taken in.

“D’Artagnan?” he rasped out. “You all right?”

“Think so,” the Gascon replied, his voice scratchy, harsh, his breath wheezing in the thick air. “You?”

Porthos grunted. “Fine. Treville?”

“Here.” The Minister’s voice was rough, but Porthos could hear the man shifting behind him, suddenly realizing what he’d landed on when the explosion had blown him off his feet. Despite having a very large Musketeer land on top of him, Treville was moving and Porthos knew that if he was able to get to his feet on his own, he was more than likely still in one piece.

“Aramis?” Porthos called again, coughing against his fist as he squinted through the haze. “Aramis?”

The sound of falling timber and rocks met his call, the smoke an eerie heaviness in the silence. 

“Here!”

Porthos shuffled toward the sound of d’Artagnan’s voice, waving his hand back and forth in an attempt to dispel the thick smoke in front of his face. As he drew near, he could make out the Gascon’s form hovering over Aramis, lying silent and still on the ground.

“He all right?”

Porthos dropped to his butt beside his friend, shaking his head to clear the high-pitched whine from his ears.

“He’s breathing,” d’Artagnan sighed in relief, placing a hand on the marksman’s chest. “And his heart’s beating.”

“Any blood?”

d’Artagnan bent closer, running a hand across and around Aramis’ head. “There’s a bump on the back of his skull, but it’s not bad. I think he’s just stunned.”

“Things explodin’ in your face’ll do that.” Porthos remarked.

The smoke was drifting up and out, light beginning to seep into the small area just below the stairwell. D’Artagnan shifted forward and slapped a hand gently on Aramis’ cheek, eliciting a moan from the unconscious musketeer.

“That’s it, Aramis. Time to wake up.”

“What –“ Aramis took a breath as he woke, gasping and coughing violently. The marksman rolled to his side, trying to breathe in the thick air and d’Artagnan helped him to a sitting position, leaning him back against the brick wall behind him. “What… happened?” He spoke like his throat was filled with gravel, heaving coughs choking him after each word.

Running a hand over his friend’s dusty hair, Porthos climbed to his feet, his arm shifting to the wall for balance as he swayed. The smoke was thicker above, and he fanned his hand again to push it away, watching it disperse enough to see through the gloom.

“Someone was waiting for us,” Treville presumed. The Minister limped over to them, leaning on the wall just beside Aramis. His face was streaked with dirt, his hair and fine clothes a mess, but he looked unhurt, protected from the force of the blast by the bulk of Porthos’ and Aramis’ bodies in front of him.

“Kristoff?” d’Artagnan asked, the old soldier an obvious choice. He scuttled up the adjoining wall, attempting to brush the dirt from his doublet.

“Nah,” Porthos shook his head, closing his eyes against the dizziness it elicited. “He could’ve just shot us. He’d no reason to blow us up.” 

“Then who?” d’Artagnan asked the question that was on all their minds.

“Doesn’t matter,” Treville responded, pushing himself upright and shuffling toward the destruction of the passageway. Though relatively steady, the Minister kept one hand on the railing of the staircase to help with his balance. The smoke had cleared enough to see through to the opening they had been heading to, now completely, collapsed and unbreachable. “We won’t get out this way,” he stated. “We’ll have to go back up and out the front.”

There was still shooting coming from outside the building and none of them relished walking back through the upstairs room knowing they would be exposed but seeing little alternative.

With three of them back on their feet, Porthos leaned down and offered an arm to Aramis, who was still coughing, but seemed more aware now that they’d managed to assess the situation. With d’Artagnan helping on the other side, they levered the marksman up, holding tightly until they were sure his legs would take his weight.

“You sure you’re all right?” Porthos asked, ducking down to get a good look at his friend’s eyes.

Though clearly in pain, Aramis grinned, the dirt on his face making his teeth and the whites of his eyes shine brightly in the gloom. “I’ve had worse.”

Porthos chuckled. “Yeah, you have.”

With a slap on his friend’s back, they started up the stairs, climbing out of the haze directly into the pistol sights of Kristoff and his soldiers.

**Fin**


	4. The More Things Change...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While the whole Bonnaire debacle was amusing, it didn’t really have much substance. My only question in this episode was, what happened to Pauline? They kind of just left her sitting in a courtyard in tears. I suspect Aramis made a deal with St. Pierre to send her somewhere she could be free to start again since I can’t see him wanting to see her locked up. I’ll leave the specifics up to your imagination, but I felt Aramis would need some closure, and since Athos and Porthos were a bit miffed at him – again – I suppose it’s up to d’Artagnan.

**Episode 4 – The Queen’s Diamonds**

**The More Things Change…**

D’Artagnan stepped into the bustling tavern his eyes raking the crowd, puffing out a breath of air as he spotted the target of his search. This was the third tavern he’d visited and had started to think he would have to return alone, knowing he risked his wife’s wrath if he showed up without Aramis. As he forced his way through the throng of revelers, his eyes trained on his errant brother as if he would disappear if he looked away for a moment.

When Aramis hadn’t showed for supper, Constance had inquired as to his whereabouts. Neither Athos nor Porthos had deigned to respond, so she’d looked to her husband for answers. Not wanting to betray any of his friends’ confidences by explaining the troubling events of the day out of turn, he placated her by offering to go out and find their missing marksman, amused that she would be so concerned about a grown man – a Musketeer – who could readily take care of himself. Constance had taken her role as their keeper quite seriously, and he loved her all the more for it, knowing better than to allow her to work herself into a state concerning the absence of one of her self-appointed charges. There had been obvious tension in the air that she would’ve been blind not to pick up on, and searching a few taverns to ease her mind was the least he could do.

He sat down in the chair directly across from Aramis at the small, wobbly table, noting the marksman’s attention hadn’t shifted from his intense study of the cup in his hands. The cup was almost full – sloshing nearly to the edge as d’Artagnan righted the rickety table – as was the bottle of wine that sat in the center, causing d’Artagnan to frown. Despite outward appearances, he knew the man had taken notice of his arrival, so he motioned to the serving girl to bring another cup, then poured himself a glass and took a sip before breaking the silence.

“I believe drinking your troubles away is Athos’ territory.”

Aramis glanced at him and smiled, though it did not reach his dark eyes. “Except it would seem our Captain has given up this particular vice. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Somebody needs to take up the mantle.”

D’Artagnan nodded at Aramis’ mostly full cup as he took another sip. “You have to actually drink the wine for it to have any effect.”

“Point taken.” Aramis lifted his cup in salute before downing the contents in one go.

D’Artagnan reached for the bottle and refilled his friend’s mug. “Is this about what happened earlier? With the ring?” He didn’t like seeing his friends on opposite sides – especially when one was pointing a gun at the other. It wasn’t as if he believed Athos would’ve fired, but it had been disconcerting to see the two old friends at odds over something so trivial.

Aramis chuckled in response. “No. Athos is well aware of my penchant for speaking my mind and doing what I believe right. And I can hardly fault him for doing the same.”

The younger man nodded slowly. “So…” he waved a hand at the bottle. “What is this about?”

“Perhaps I was simply thirsty.”

“Again, you’d actually have to drink the wine –“

“For it to have an effect,” Aramis cut him off. “Yes, you’re completely right.” He downed the second mug much like the first, wiping a hand across his face before settling back into his chair. He grinned, tilting his head as he studied the Gascon. “You’ve become quite astute in the last four years, d’Artagnan.”

“And you’ve become even more evasive.”

“It seems we’ve all changed then.”

“Yet we’re all still the same.” D’Artagnan twirled his cup in his hands. “This is about that woman, right? The one from the first page?”

Aramis reached for the bottle and filled his cup again. He took another sip, his face clouding, his eyes sadder, darker. “Sometimes change is not enough to erase the past.”

D’Artagnan frowned, confused. He knew he was missing something – perhaps something important – but since Aramis had not seemed to want to talk about what had happened with his friend when he met them at the gravesite, he hadn’t inquired before now. “Did something happen? I mean outside of losing the diamond?”

Aramis didn’t answer immediately, instead a myriad of emotions crossed his face, from anger and disappointment, to sorrow to finally something d’Artagna recognized as regret.

“I’m afraid Pauline was too desperate to hold on to her changes. So much so that the past was her undoing.”

D’Artagnan had no idea what his friend was talking about, but he could read the pain in his eyes easily enough. Whatever had happened with his friend had hurt Aramis – deeply – and he was at a loss how to help.

“I’m sorry.” He knew the words rang hollow, but he hoped the sentiment would be accepted.

“As am I.”

They sat in silence for a moment, neither drinking, both lost in their thoughts. Finally, d’Artagnan felt the need to make sure the earlier discord between his friends was no longer an issue.

“So you’re all right?” he asked cautiously. “You’re not still angry with Athos?”

Aramis chuckled softly. “Athos and I have been at odds many times and, I can say with certainty, will be again.” He shook his head. “No, I am not angry with Athos. He was simply doing his duty, as was I.”

D’Artagnan sighed, relieved. “And Porthos?” He didn’t miss the way the bigger man had removed himself from the situation altogether, unable to chose sides, unwilling to become a part of the confrontation between his two best friends.

“Porthos will forgive me in time.”

D’Artagnan wasn’t sure if he was speaking of today’s altercation or the last four years in general. Either way, Aramis didn’t seem overly concerned about his place in their group. Though it was obvious their relationships were still strained since their return to Paris, he seemed to be, if not at ease, at least at peace with the status of their reconciliation.

“So things haven’t changed all that much after all,” d’Artagnan concluded, hoping the other man would agree.

Aramis smiled and raised his cup, waiting for d’Artagnan to do the same. “Not where it counts.”

_Fin_


	5. Clemency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting shot in the face has to hurt, right? Looks like d'Artagnan and Aramis are going to have a few behind the scenes heart-to-heart chats this season.

**Episode 5 – To Play the King**

**Clemency**

As they stepped through the archway to the garrison courtyard, Porthos clamped a hand on Aramis’ shoulder and directed the marksman toward the bench near the table at the foot of the stairs. Aramis wanted to protest, tell his friend he was fine, but he wasn’t quite up to lying at the moment. 

His face _hurt._ His jaw was on fire and his head pounded in time with his heart. He’d kept the handkerchief Athos had given him pressed to the wound and he knew it had stopped bleeding for the most part, but it still burned, the close range damage due more to the heat of the shot than the actual bullet.

He allowed his friend to turn him and push him onto the bench, noting d’Artagnan settle himself against the table top beside him, as if he intended to block Aramis from the side should he have the mind to attempt an escape.

Porthos reached forward and gently placed a hand over his own, moving the blood-stained cloth from his face.

“That’s gonna leave a scar,” the big man hissed, stooping down and tilting his head to get a better look at the damage.

Aramis attempted to smile, wincing as the motion pulled at the wound. “And yet I’d do it all the same if need be.”

Porthos snorted a laugh. “I know you would.” He stood up and crossed his arms on his chest, his eyes narrowing as he studied his friend’s marred face. “Why do you think the King was so angry?”

“His wife did just get assaulted on palace grounds,” d’Artagnan reminded him. “I think we can understand him being a bit put out.”

Porthos shook his head thoughtfully, his eyes holding Aramis’ “Nah. He was mad at you specifically,” he accused the marksman. “You think he knows?”

Aramis shrugged. “How?” he asked. “He was convinced everything Rochefort said was lies. And it’s not like I’ve been around for the last four years for him to be reminded.”

“Perhaps the Queen slipped,” Porthos offered. “Said something to make him suspicious again?”

“No,” Aramis shook his head, wincing again as the ache in his skull ticked up a notch. “She would never do anything that could endanger her son. She’s smarter than that.”

Porthos nodded in agreement. “Though it seems somethin’s changed. We best keep you out of his sight until we know what’s what.”

Aramis hummed in agreement, not wanting to make things harder for Anne. It was obvious something had happened in the time he was gone for her to have fallen out of favor with the King. Perhaps d’Artagnan was right and it was just his fear speaking, but Aramis doubted it. He’d dealt with more than his share of jealous husbands, and he had clearly seen resentment and mistrust in Louis’ eyes when he’d seen them together. 

Porthos brushed the cloth against the still seeping wound. “We’d better get this cleaned up. Be right back.”

Aramis breathed a sigh of relief that his friend was wise enough to leave the situation with the Queen alone for now. He placed the cloth back on the wound, noticing the Gascon sitting silently to his right. D’Artagnan was perched on the edge of the table, feet on the bench, arms balanced on his upturned thighs. His head was bowed, dark hair falling across his cheek, his gaze locked onto his clasped hands. D’Artagnan’s eyes were distant and unfocused and Aramis sensed he wasn’t seeing anything so corporeal as what was right in front of him.

“You did what was necessary to protect the Queen, d’Artagnan,” Aramis consoled, rightly assuming Borel’s demise was what was weighing so heavily in the younger man’s mind. “I, for one, thank you.”

D’Artagnan huffed a breath through his lips. “I didn’t help those nuns at all,” he mumbled. “I got them killed.”

“You tried to help a troubled soul.”

“I was a fool.”

“You were human,” Aramis countered, lowering the cloth, his physical pain forgotten in the wake of his friend’s emotional turmoil. “There was no way for you to foresee how sick the man truly was.”

D’Artagnan turned to him, an expression of dismay on his face. “How can you of all people say that?” He shook his head. “I saw how hard you fought to protect those monks at the monastery. Would you have been so forgiving if it was them lying dead?”

“The Abbé died because I did not insist he turn those men away, despite my knowing they would be trouble. Am I to blame for his death?”

“Of course not,” d’Artagnan sputtered. “Those men killed him, not you.”

“Just as you cannot be held accountable for what happened to those nuns.”

The Gascon still wasn’t convinced. “But I let him go,” he argued. “If I had returned him to the Chatelet…”

“You tried to help him.”

“And look where it got me.”

Aramis sighed. “Please don’t believe compassion a weakness, d’Artagnan. Too many men make the mistake of seeing basic human kindness as something undeserved. That is how men like Rochefort and Governor Feron are created. I would hate to see you go down that path because of what you perceive as a mistake.”

“And what about you?”

Aramis smiled. “I know what I am. I may not always make the right decision, but I will always try to remain true to myself. I only ask that you strive to do the same.”

D’Artagnan held Aramis’ eyes for a moment and the marksman could see the war being waged in his mind. Finally he nodded, not totally absolved of his guilt, but a bit lighter for the conversation nonetheless.

“So what do we do about the King?”

Aramis shrugged. “Besides making sure I am not in his direct line of sight for the foreseeable future? I have no idea.”

“And if that’s not possible?”

Aramis took a deep breath and leaned back against the edge of the table. “Then my fate is sealed. If he has decided Rochefort was being truthful in this instance at least, there is little that can be done.”

“So you’re giving up?”

“No. But I will not deny the truth a second time.”

“Perhaps you could return to the monastery?” d’Artagnan suggested. “You would be safe there.”

“Yet the Queen would not.” Aramis shook his head. “I made that mistake once and it seems it only left doubt to fester and postpone the inevitable.”

“We will stand beside you, Aramis,” the younger man stated. “And her. You know that.”

“I do. Which is why I left in the first place.” Aramis dropped his head, unable to meet the Gascon’s gaze. “I would never forgive myself if anything happened to any of you because of me.”

“All for one, right?” d’Artagnan dipped his head, trying to catch his friend’s eyes.

“I’m not so sure that applies anymore,” Aramis admitted.

“Says who?” 

“Porthos? Athos?” Aramis shrugged again. “It seems my absence has consequences that reach farther than I could’ve ever anticipated.”

“That’s rubbish,” Porthos’ voice chimed in from behind. The big man rounded the table, his arms loaded with a basin of water, some clean cloths, a cup and two flasks of wine. He placed the cup and a flask on the table near d’Artagnan then turned his attention to the marksman, tilting his head toward the stairs. “Let’s go then,” he ordered. “I’m sure you have a few things in your room that’ll help ease the pain, eh?”

Aramis grinned and allowed d’Artagnan to help him to his feet. “And if not, I’m sure that wine has medicinal properties.” He turned back to the younger man as they passed. “d’Artagnan, try not to brood for too long.”

“And if you do, come get us,” Porthos added. “And more wine.”

The Gascon snorted a laugh and turned to sit at the table properly, shedding his doublet as he moved. “I promise to find you should my cup run dry.” He reached for the flask, saluting his friends before pouring a healthy serving into the cup.

Aramis shuffled after Porthos toward the stairs, throwing a glance over his shoulder. He hoped his young friend would find a way to forgive himself, knowing just how fleeting a thing mercy could be.

_Fin_


	6. Finding Balance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it all right to point a gun at your friend? Even under the guise of duty?

_This came from a conversation with a couple of readers who both stated how troubling thay found it that Athos held a gun to Aramis and threatened to shoot in episode 4, The Queen’s Diamonds. I found it out of character also, and I suppose it’s my way of trying to reconcile what one of them called “New Athos” with the Athos I’ve known the first two seasons. This conversation ran through my head, and since d’Artagnan is actually acting like himself, I thought he would be the one to call attention to the problem._

**Finding Balance**

D’Artagnan stopped the Captain as he reached for the door to his office. “Have you spoken with Aramis?”

“Not of late, why?”

The Gascon’s eyes went wide as if the answer was obvious. “Um, you held a gun on him? Threatened to shoot him? Any of this sound familiar?”

The Captain didn’t appreciate the younger man’s accusatory tone and narrowed his eyes. “I was following orders. Aramis was interfering with my duty.”

“Orders,” d’Artagnan spat. “Because we were ordered to find a diamond, that makes it all right for you to point a weapon at one of your oldest friends and threaten to shoot him?”

“I sense you don’t agree.”

D’Artagnan exploded. “Of course I don’t agree! How can you agree? What’s wrong with you?”

Taking a deep breath, Athos forced himself to remain calm. One insubordinate Musketeer was more than enough. “As I said, we were ordered –“

“To find the Queen of England’s diamond. I know. I was there.” The Gascon shifted on his feet, his hands balled into tight fists balanced on his hips.

“Then I fail to see the problem.”

“You could’ve lowered your weapon.” He leaned in, shaking his head, his voice lowered, pleading. “You could’ve had the decency to hear the man out.”

“If I recall, Monsieur St. Pierre was the one to draw a weapon.” It’s not like they had gone there to attack the man, they had only wanted the diamond. At least that was what he’d told himself. A simple retrieval. When he’d noticed Aramis standing in the courtyard, he’d known it wouldn’t be so easy.

D’Artagnan tutted in response. “A rapier, Athos. And there were three of us. How much damage could he have possibly done. He was simply defending his property –“

“Stolen property.”

“—which he most likely purchased in good faith. But that’s not exactly the point.” The Gascon took a deep breath, frustration bleeding through his voice.

“And just what is your point, d’Artagnan? I do have work to do.”

“You held a gun on Aramis! Your friend. Your brother. How can you justify that?”

“Aramis is, has been, and always will be a man who acts from the heart. While his intentions are usually honorable, his results can sometimes leave little to be desired. You know this as well as I.”

d’Artagnan’s face crumpled and he shook his head, dismayed. “What’s happened to you?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

D’Artagnan stepped forward, leaning into the Captain’s space. “It’s like you and Porthos don’t even want Aramis back. You’re pointing guns at him and Porthos is acting like he has the plague or something. He left – for whatever reasons – he left. We went to retrieve him but weren’t allowed to speak with him. Do you think he would’ve turned us away if he’d had any indication we were there to bring him back? To ask him to fight alongside us?”

Athos barely refrained from shrugging. “That is something we will never have an answer for.”

D’Artagnan threw up his arms in frustration. “My god! You’re both acting as if his leaving was a personal slight against you. I missed him, too. Granted, I wasn’t as close as the three of you, but I felt the hole in my life just as much. And now he’s back. And he’s trying to find his place. Can’t we give him some kind of indication he still belongs with us?”

“Aramis already knows this.”

“How? When all either of you do is push him away? Have you even realized how much time he spends away from the garrison? Or are you too wrapped up in your orders to take notice?”

Athos sighed, weary of the conversation. “What would you like us to do? Aramis is a grown man, a man quite capable of taking care of himself. If he had a problem with how Porthos or I behave, I doubt he’d hesitate to inform us.”

D’Artagnan leaned against the railing, tilting his head back, his eyes searching the sky above. “I give up. There’s just no talking to you sometimes.” He pushed off the railing and stomped toward the stairs shaking his head. “I hope someday you can see what you’re doing. I just pray it’s not too late.”

“I am doing my duty.” Athos called out, more petulant than intended. “I suggest you do the same.”

“Fine!” came the clipped response as d’Artagnan disappeared from view.

Athos let his chin drop onto his chest, suddenly exhausted. He took a few deep, cleansing breaths before opening the door and stepping into his office.

“What was that all about?” Porthos was reclining in the chair in front of the paper-strewn desk, one foot balanced on the rung, the other stretched out before him.

Athos waved a hand behind him and pushed the door closed with more force than necessary. “Apparently d’Artagnan thinks we’ve been a bit too hard on Aramis.” He stomped across the floor and dropped down into his seat, his ire rising at the memory of the confrontation.

Porthos didn’t respond right away, and when Athos looked to his friend, it was obvious he’d heard most of the conversation that had taken place just outside. “Maybe d’Artagnan has a point. You did hold a gun on Aramis and threaten to shoot.”

“And you did not interfere.”

“Maybe I should have.” Porthos shrugged. He dropped his gaze to his hands, his brow scrunching in thought. “They weren’t even the King’s diamonds. They were England’s. We chose England over Aramis.”

“We chose duty.” Athos pointed out.

“Yeah,” Porthos agreed, but he didn’t sound altogether convinced and Athos had to admit, now that d’Artagnan had laid it out before him, the argument was fairly thin.

“Perhaps d’Artagnan’s right.” The Captain sighed and rubbed a hand down his face, weary. “I suppose I do owe Aramis an apology for allowing it to get that far.”

“And I should’ve called you both on your stubbornness.”

They sat in silence a moment, both lost in thought, regretting the discord that had settled between them and their friend.

“Do you want him back?” Athos finally broke the stillness, not sure if he truly wanted to know the answer. Aramis had always been such a big part of their lives – the center of their small circle; always forcing them to live up to the high expectations of who he believed them to be. It kept them honorable, forced them to be better than they were. They’d lived without him for four long years, under the harshest of circumstances. Did he still see them as the men they used to be? 

“Of course I do. It was never right without him…”

“But?”

Porthos sighed, his voice taking on a tone of melancholy Athos found disturbing. “But, we did learn to live without him. We didn’t like it – I didn’t like it – but eventually…” He didn’t elaborate, but he didn’t really need to.

“War changes things,” Athos stated. “But perhaps it shouldn’t change what’s most important.”

“I think I saw him heading toward the Wren,” Porthos suggested, hopeful. “Feelin’ thirsty?”

Athos smiled. “I could use a drink.”

**fin**


	7. Obligations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ask and you shall receive. :)

_A continuation of my last chapter – a coda to Episode 4, The Queen’s Diamonds. I received many requests to continue on with what happened when Athos and Porthos find Aramis in the Wren, so… ask and you shall receive. This was quick, but I hope it works!!_

 

**Obligations**

The Wren was quieter than normal, most of the usual revelers remaining in their homes, either unable to afford their normal nocturnal activities or afraid of what was happening to their fair city. The room wasn’t quite empty, a few men sitting quietly at a table near the fire, some others playing cards further back. The lack of a crowd made it easy to find the man they were searching for, the marksman sitting alone at a table near the back corner.

His hat sat on the scarred wood table beside him, his leather doublet and weapons belt draped across an empty chair. He had a bowl of stew before him but was either not hungry or unimpressed with the evening’s fare since he sat staring at the table, his hand moving the spoon in circles without once bringing it to his lips.

Porthos exchanged a look with Athos before meandering across the room, stopping just before the table, suddenly unsure of his welcome.

“That looks good,” he said, nodding toward the bowl of steaming stew as soon as Aramis took note of their arrival.

The marksman pushed the bowl across the table and leaned back, a cautious grin on his face. “Please, be my guest. I don’t seem to have much of an appetite this evening.”

Taking it as an invitation to sit, both men dropped their hats onto the table and made themselves comfortable in the chairs circling the small table.

“You could’ve eaten at the garrison, you know,” Porthos began. He sniffed the bowl before taking a bite, grunting appreciatively at the savory taste.

“I needed to clear my head,” Aramis admitted. “It was a rather trying day.”

“For us all,” Athos offered. He motioned for the barmaid to bring them a bottle of wine, noting his friend had neglected to order any. The absence of alcohol made Porthos feel a little better, knowing Aramis hadn’t slunk off to the tavern to drown his sorrows – though he looked right sorrowful at the moment.

They sat in a tense silence as the maid brought the requested bottle and Athos poured a generous amount into three of the four cups.

“We seem to be missing someone,” Aramis nodded to the fourth cup sitting empty in the center of the table.

“I’m sure d’Artagnan will be along shortly.”

Porthos hummed in agreement. He’d seen the Gascon as they’d left the garrison, his knowing eyes watching them, a small smile on his face as if he had no doubt where they were headed.

“So what happened with your friend? Were you able to help her?”

Aramis took a deep breath, his eyes losing focus again. “I’m afraid Pauline was beyond my help,” he said sadly. 

Porthos’ spoon stopped midway to his mouth. “She’s all right?”

Aramis shook his head, his finger idly playing with a splinter of wood that had come loose from the tabletop. “All right is not a term I’d use right now.”

Athos leaned forward. “Perhaps you should start at the beginning.”

Aramis told them of Pauline’s plight, of her fear of whoever it was who was blackmailing her. Porthos was enthralled as his old friend told him things about himself they’d never heard before, the truth of where he came from, of his mother. Knowing he’d lost his real mother when he was just a boy made Porthos feel a new type of kinship with him. It also made him wonder why he’d never known any of this before.

It wasn’t as if he’d never asked about Aramis’ past. The marksman had simply never spoken of this part of it. Porthos understood a man not wanting his past to interfere with his present or future, but he’d never have guessed Aramis childhood had been as dramatic as he was laying it out now. 

"She killed him?" Athos’ question brought him back to the situation at hand, but he made a promise he would ask his friend to elaborate on the story of his upbringing later.

"She was... not in her right mind.” Aramis responded, guarded. He was obviously upset, no doubt wondering what he could’ve done differently to make things turn out better. “She was frightened. He'd threatened all she'd come to hold dear."

"So what happened to her?"

Aramis’ dark eyes flickered to Porthos’ at the inquiry. He shrugged. "I don't know. St. Pierre said he would take care of contacting the magistrate, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he simply put her on a ship to England to avoid the scandal."

"You didn't arrest her?" Porthos cringed at Athos question, but Aramis seemed to have been expecting it.

"No. How could I? I couldn't even look at her." He leaned forward, elbows on the table, letting his head drop as his hands fisted in his hair.

Porthos ducked his head, trying to catch his friend’s eyes. "I know that face. That's your guilt face. You're blaming yourself for all this."

Aramis snorted a derisive laugh. "If I hadn't tried to intervene, perhaps she wouldn't have been driven to such desperation."

"You were trying to help her, Aramis. You were trying to protect her."

The marksman dropped his hands onto the table, his grin filled with self-contempt. "Yes. Well you know what they say about good deeds... It seems all the women I care for are destined for tragedy."

"The Queen is --"

"Unhappy, lonely, living in a loveless marriage."

"But safe."

"For now." 

Porthos had no idea how to respond to the statement. A quick look at Athos showed the Captain out of his depth as well. After a moment Aramis looked up, his gaze moving from one to the other, his brow furrowed. "Why are you here?"

"What?"

"You successfully retrieved Queen Henrietta's diamonds. I’m sure the King was pleased. You should be celebrating, yet you are here with me, listening to me prattle on about another woman I’ve failed."

Porthos pursed his lips and frowned, thinking the answer obvious. "I thought that's what friends do, listen." From the look of surprise on Aramis’ face, the answer had been a bit more obscure than expected.

"Though to be fair, we haven't been doing much of that as of late," Athos added, his voice touched with remorse. It was clear now to Porthos that d’Artagnan had been right. They had all had a difficult time readjusting to their new dynamic after years apart. He’d assumed Aramis was fine because he hadn’t had to be knee deep in mud and blood. But just because Aramis had been tucked away in the monastery fighting spiritual battles instead of physical ones the battlefield, didn’t mean his transition had been any easier.

"You're busy men,” the marksman noted and Porthos decided he hated the despondency lacing his friend’s voice. “Being a war hero – not to mention a Captain -- comes with many obligations."

"It does,” Athos admitted quietly. “The wellbeing of my men is one of those obligations."

Aramis’ smile was tentative but genuine, his eyes lighting up for the first time in a long while. He held his cup aloft, waiting for the other to do the same. “To obligations.”

The clank of the cups echoed loud in the quietness of the tavern.

**Fin.**


	8. Hidden Damage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who else was miffed at the way Louis taunted Aramis with the Dauphin's affection?

_I was told the BBC was using a rather eclectic scheduling concept, so I didn’t want to get too far ahead of them. I hope episode 6 has been shown now, so on we go!!_

**Episode 6 – Death of a Hero**

**Hidden Damage**

“Why?”

Aramis turned, confused at Porthos’ simple question as they followed Athos to the stable. The Captain moved in a straight line, but it was obvious he was still in pain from the beating he’d taken at the hands of Grimaud earlier. Porthos and d’Artagnan were moving slower than normal as well, though he supposed having a building fall on you would definitely curb one’s enthusiasm for prolonged activity. They had all assured him they were fine – bruised and sore but functional – but he was not about to take their word for it and found himself unwilling to let any of his brothers out of his sight until he could check them over and confirm their claims. Oddly enough, despite facing his own demise from the most powerful man in the country only hours earlier, he was the one who’d come through the day unscathed. 

Physically, at least.

“Why what?”

“Why of all people would the King confide about his health in you?” Porthos asked, his brow furrowed in confusion. “It’s not like you’re one of his favorite people at the moment. Why tell _you_ he was dying? According to Treville he hasn’t told anyone – not even the Queen. So why you?”

Aramis shrugged, deflecting. He’d neglected to tell them of Louis’ real reason for ordering the failed monk to accompany him on his pilgrimage, knowing none of them would take it well. At the moment, he would like nothing more than to forget the day – and the King’s petulant threats – and force the others to concentrate on their own pains. 

But he was tired of all the secrets being kept, tired of the strain between them, and felt the need to be truthful, if only to selfishly know they would still have his back if the King decided he wanted his head after all. It was hard to believe that it was just this morning he and Porthos had been shooting bottles like old times. It had been the first time since their return he felt that they could quite possibly find the rhythm they used to have, but now he was knew that was merely a momentary reprieve from the menace that still haunted them. Apparently the past was not so easy to escape.

“I don’t believe the revelation of his dire health was the main point of the excusrion,” the marksman admitted sullenly.

“And just what was his point?”

“That he had every intention of seeing me hanged for sleeping with the Queen.”

He took another step before realizing the others had stopped. Looking around he noted three pairs of wide eyes staring at him from where they flanked him on all sides.

“He knows?” Athos clarified, his voice a hushed rumble. “How?”

Aramis could only shrug. “I didn’t actually inquire, but he seemed quite convinced. He ordered me to confess.” He honestly had no idea how Louis had gone from believing Rochefort’s accusations all lies to being convinced of the betrayal. It wasn’t something he was apt to investigate considering the precarious status of the King’s decision.

D’Artagnan sputtered an incredulous laugh. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

“Not in so many words.” Aramis lifted his head, unable to meet their gazes, staring up at the thatched roof of the stable. “I told him I slept with a very lonely woman.”

“Ah, Aramis…” The Gascon sighed and turned away, covering his eyes with a hand.

“You’re joking,” Porthos grabbed his shoulder, forcing Aramis to pivot back to face him. “You – the man who barely acknowledges any order given and this is the one you decide to follow?”

Aramis brushed his friend’s hand off, annoyed. “What was I to do? Hmm? He was already convinced, it’s not like it did more harm. Besides, he decided not to hang me after all.”

Porthos slapped a hand on his leg causing dust to rise into the air. “Wonderful,” he hissed. “It’s not enough we have Grimaud and Marcheaux to deal with, now we have to worry about the King himself coming after us.”

“Not us, Porthos,” Aramis corrected. “Just me. It’s me he’s angry with. I will not allow the rest of you – nor the Queen – to be held accountable for my actions.”

“You said he decided not to hang you?” Athos inquired. “He said this?”

Aramis nodded. “Perhaps it was because I protected him from Grimaud’s men. Or...”

“Or?”

The marksman shrugged again. “Perhaps it was his grief over Governor Feron, or he was simply being merciful considering his current condition, though I doubt it. As it is, my head will be able to stay attached to my body for the time being.”

Porthos narrowed his eyes and stepped closer. “But? I can always tell when there’s a but.”

Aramis dipped his head. “But… he made it quite clear that I would never be allowed anywhere near the Queen or the Dauphin even after his death.” He looked up, his dark eyes empty, cheerless. “I believe he rather enjoyed taunting me with that promise.”

The other three exchanged looks of sympathy. Porthos wrapped a hand around the back of Aramis’ neck and squeezed hard. “I’m sorry, ‘Mis. But it’s not like you didn’t already expect that. You’re lucky you’re not in the Chatelet already.”

Aramis nodded, pulling his hat from his head and running a hand through his hair. “Louis can’t do that. Not without admitting the Dauphin isn’t his son and leaving France without an heir,” he reasoned. “I doubt he wants to name Gaston his successor considering the past and his treachery of late. He is out of time. Unless Louis is willing to admit the Bourbon line will end with him, he really has little choice but to keep the secret.”

“Which means he cannot publicly arrest you and charge you with treason,” Athos concluded. The Captain slouched in relief, leaning back against a post, the effort only managing to accentuate his obvious pain and fatigue.

Porthos grunted his opinion of the King’s pride. “So he’s willing to let everyone believe the Dauphin is his true born son to save face.”

“Our King will go to any length necessary to hide the fact that he was not able to provide a Bourbon heir.”

D’Artagnan huffed a laugh. “So he should be thanking you, not threatening to kill you.”

Aramis’ grin was grim. “Somehow I doubt he sees it quite that way.” He took a deep breath and placed his hat back on his head, smacking his hands together as if to rid them of the metaphorical dirt clinging to them. “But it is not my troubles that should be the immediate concern,” He made a show of looking each of his friends up and down, tutting at the rather pitiful picture they presented. “You all look absolutely terrible. I suggest we get you all cleaned up and a hot meal in your bellies. After that, I hope you will allow me to assure myself of your good health.”

“After all that, he’s worried about us?” d’Artagnan asked incredulously.

“Physical injuries are something he can fix,” Athos said knowingly, a crooked grin lighting his bruised face. He bowed stiffly, placing a hand on their field medic’s shoulder. “I for one would be grateful for the attention.” Whether it was because the Captain truly needed the help or simply wanted to keep Aramis’ mind occupied from his own troubles, the marksman couldn’t guess, but he would accept the gesture of trust nonetheless. “I will meet you at the garrison. There is something I must attend to first.”

Aramis silently challenged his decision, but the Captain held his gaze and he reluctantly nodded his agreement.

“Yeah,” Porthos added. “I could use a good massage.” He rolled his shoulders to emphasize the statement. “I hope you’re still as good with your hands as you used to be.”

“As do I.” Aramis smiled. “Would it be too much to ask for us to hurry our departure. The longer we remain on royal grounds, the more I fear my luck may run out.”

“But you’re the luckiest man I know,” d’Artagnan countered as they headed toward the horses. 

Aramis placed an arm across the young man’s shoulders, ignoring the dust that flew up at the contact. “With friends such as you, how could I be anything but?”

_Fin_


	9. What's in a Name?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have two little snippets from this ep. First up, some much needed banter and humor. Porthos had a rough day.

_In my opinion, this episode took the Athos Man Pain well over the top – I wasn’t going to even try to touch it. But I thought Elodie and Porthos were adorable. I was happy to see him smile for real. And when Aramis and Juliette arrived at the room, his smile and Porthos brow raise made my day. This popped into my head from that. It’s not much, but it made me chuckle – which was sorely needed after all that Athos angst._

**Episode 7 – Fools Gold**

**What’s in a Name?**

Aramis stepped back as Porthos shuffled through the doorway with a sigh of relief. He placed a hand on the big man’s shoulder and squeezed.

“I was down there, unarmed, facing who knows how many men with guns and swords, while you stayed back here inside this shack playing nursemaid to an expectant mother?” He waved a hand toward the room where Juliet was helping Elodie with the newborn. “Thank God I had the easier task.”

Porthos snorted a laugh. “I see you made it through in one piece.”

Aramis nodded. “As did you.” He leaned back and peeked into the room. “Boy or girl?”

“Girl,” Porthos announced proudly.

Aramis sighed, seemingly disappointed. “A pity.”

The big Musketeer glared at his friend. “You of all people would belittle a child just because it was a girl?”

Aramis held up a hand in supplication. “Of course not. It’s a rather well known fact that I love women.”

Porthos frowned. “Then why’s it a pity?”

“What if she feels the need to name it after you?” Aramis asked, his eyes wide with innocent mirth. “Can you imagine how difficult the child’s life will be if she has to struggle through it being known as Porthosa?”

The big Musketeer’s head fell back in laughter. “Maybe Porthica would be better?”

“Or Porthetta.”

“Porthalina?”

“Are you two quite done?”

The two men wiped the smiles from their faces, turning to find Juliette glaring at them from the open doorway. They shifted on their feet, chastised, returning her gaze contritely.

“The baby is sleeping and Elodie is exhausted. If you don’t mind taking this little game somewhere else, I think she would like to get some rest.”

Aramis bowed, a smile playing at his lips. “Of course. Our apologies for the disruption.”

“Porthos?” Elodie’s voice drifted out from inside the room. “Please stay?”

The Musketeer’s brows rose victoriously and he ducked past Juliette, grinning at his friend as he returned to the new mother’s side.

“Perhaps I could interest you in some ale?” Juliette asked, her own smile threatening to crack the dour expression she habitually wore. She seemed different, lighter, and Aramis was thrilled to see it.

The marksman held out an arm gallantly. “I would be honored, Madame.”

**fin ******


	10. Two Plus Two...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After many discussions (thank you Thimblerig and Brenwan for planting the seeds!!) I was tasked with trying to figure out how Louis became so sure about Anne and Aramis. This is what I came up with.

_Many people have posed the question of how Louis went from believing Rochefort was spouting lies to being convinced Anne had slept with Aramis. I’m sure there were a few things that happened in the ensuing 4 year gap that made him wonder, then suspect, then conclude. This is my take on how that happened._

**Two Plus Two…**

War was boring. 

It was an unexpected revelation, especially from a monarch’s point of view. 

While Treville kept him informed of the results of the battles and allowed him to appear to be in charge of the country’s plan, Louis knew the war was being readily managed by his Minister and generals, his input more or less a courtesy, welcome but not necessarily needed or heeded. He wasn’t quite sure how to react to that, but since Treville afforded him the luxury of feeling as if he was still making the important decisions, he decided not to call him on it, knowing the Minister had enough on his hands without needing to soothe his King’s deflated ego.

Besides, after spending all those months being duped by Rochefort, Louis was more than willing to take a step back and allow others to take the blame for how things progressed, trusting Treville to make certain nobody would hold the crown responsible for Spain’s plan almost succeeding.

War was also expensive – which wasn’t much of a surprise – but it put a terrible damper on things.

Treville had cautioned him to avoid hunting parties and celebrations of any kind, explaining that a King could not act as if everything were normal when he had declared war. The country’s coffers must be made available for weapons and soldiers lest they run short of ammunition or horses or food. Louis had argued a King could do anything he wanted with his reserves of gold, and Treville, patient as always, had agreed but pointed out it might not be taken well considering the sacrifices his subjects were being forced to make. 

Louis hated it when Treville made such sense. If he had realized it would put such a constraint on his fun, he would have never let his anger at Spain rule his judgment.

But Spain had overstepped. Sending Rochefort to Paris had been underhanded and completely without scruples. The man had wreaked havoc amongst the court, tricking him into signing the Queen’s death warrant – an act he hoped would never come to light under public scrutiny. Though it was known a king was infallible, agreeing to murder his wife because of a couple of unsent letters and other unsubstantiated accusations was something even a king would have trouble explaining.

Anne seemed to have forgiven him, though. At least she seemed to understand the terrible strain he’d been under. Rochefort had poisoned him, dulling his senses, attempting to manipulate him into doing things he knows he would’ve regretted for the rest of his life. That life would have probably been quite short, Treville had informed him. Once Rochefort had convinced him to kill the Queen and the Dauphin, he would have had little use for Louis, either keeping him drugged and defenseless in order to usurp his power, or killing him out right and taking the Regency for himself. 

Either way, France would have fallen to Spain and his legacy would have been as the fool who allowed one man’s lies to take down an entire monarchy.

And they were lies, Treville had assured him. The Spanish Spymaster – Vargas – his testimony had convinced Louis of Rochefort’s treachery. The Musketeers had managed to bring him to the palace just in time to save the Queen – and quite possibly Louis’ crown – and he was grateful. Treville’s four men were probably the only reason France still stood, and he assured them all he would not allow Rochefort’s accusations and lies to sway his mind again.

But hadn’t he always heard that the greatest lies were built on small truths? He could not help but wonder if all of Rochefort’s accusations were falsehoods. He’d seen the way Anne looked at the Musketeer Aramis…

But no. He would not allow himself to even consider it. His wife and son were safe and the country strong. Rochefort’s lies would not have a hold on him any longer. 

The thought of his son made him smile. Perhaps he could seek them out and they could pass some time together. Thanks to all that had transpired, they had spent so little time as a family as of late.

With a purpose, he made his way toward the Queen’s apartments. She had requested new rooms, claiming the memories of Rochefort’s attack haunted her lavish residence and the Dauphin would soon need more space of his own as he began to crawl and walk. Louis had readily acquiesced to her request, ordering the workers to remodel the east wind to the Queen’s specifications. Despite Treville’s previous warnings about spending money unnecessarily, the Minister had not remarked about the work, deeming the Queen’s peace of mind a fitting use of coin.

As he approached the Queen’s sitting room, Louis noted the doors were open and the guards who normally stood watch over the Queen and their son had been dismissed. Curious, he slowed, approaching quietly, frowning at the murmur of female voices he heard coming from within.

“He insisted I return it to you, Your Majesty.” The voice was familiar and it took Louis only moments to recognize the young woman who had been in Anne’s service before marrying the Musketeer d’Artagnan.

“Thank you, Constance.” Anne’s voice was soft, sad. “I suppose it is for the best.”

Louis stepped inside the room and both women looked up, startled at the unexpected intrusion.

“Madam d’Artagnan,” Louis greeted as they stepped apart. Constance bowed at the sight of the King, while Anne quickly dropped her hands into the folds of her skirt. “Do what do we owe the pleasure?”

He’d never bothered to get to know the young woman before, but since Rochefort had almost managed to have her beheaded for something she had no part in, Louis had decided he could make an effort. She was, after all, Anne’s friend and the wife of his champion Musketeer. He knew she had been privy to most of Rochefort’s manipulations and could only hope her discretion would remain binding due to her affection for the Queen.

“Your Majesty,” Constance rose, smiling tentatively as she glanced at Anne. 

“Constance was simply returning a piece of jewelry I had lost,” Anne explained. She held up an ornate silver cross, encrusted with rubies and sapphires. “I had no idea it as even missing.” She turned to Madam d’Artagnan and smiled. “Thank you, Constance. I hope I will see you despite your busy schedule.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Constance curtsied. “I must return to the garrison before the recruits destroy the place.” She bowed again to the King and hurried from the room.

“The garrison?” Louis asked, watching as Anne crossed the room to a table and laying the cross on top. She treated the necklace reverently, almost as if it was blessed by God himself.

“Yes,” she responded as she turned and made her way back toward the door. “Constance is helping Treville with the new Musketeer recruits at the garrison while Captain Athos, d’Artagnan and the others are away.” She took a deep breath as she stood before him. “You rarely come to my rooms, Sire. I am honored. I was just about to go see our son. I was informed he said his first words today.” Her smile blossomed at the mention of the child and Louis could swear the sun was shining brighter through the windows. “Would you like to accompany me?”

Louis returned her smile and offered her an arm, “I would be delighted.”

The war may have put a damper on his spending, but time with his son was something beyond price.

Mmmmmmmmmmm

**_Two years later…._ **

Louis sighed and rubbed his chest, frowning at the ache that had begun to take up residence. The war was going as well as could be expected, although Louis had never anticipated it taking so long. He had visions of his army swooping down upon Spain’s troops, one decisive victory after another, quickly making their way to Madrid and forcing Phillippe to surrender. 

But it had hardly been so simple.

For every victory they celebrated, the Spanish would attack on another front, leaving French soldiers dead and wounded, destroying supplies and forcing them to readjust their strategy. Treville had told him this was the way of war, but Louis had never thought it would be so tedious, believing the glory and prestige of battles won would fill the streets with cheers and ovations for their sovereign. Instead, the people were growing angry, tired of the fighting, wary of the prospect of Paris falling to the Spanish army.

Treville had reported news of the Spanish troops beginning to muster along the northern border in Flanders, brought north by ships fresh from their fight with England. France was winning more battles in the south and Treville had suggested moving some of the more experienced troops north to meet the new threat.

“But will we be able to hold our southern borders if those men are reassigned?” Over the years, he’d become quite adept at how a war was waged. Listening to Treville, learning the strategy of how and why men were placed had made him a better leader and now Treville lent more credence to his thoughts and opinions. Louis couldn’t help the flush of pleasure he felt when Treville smiled with undisguised pride at his question.

“Some of the new Musketeer recruits are ready to be deployed,” he informed them. Both Louis and Anne were present in the great hall today, the Queen stating she would like to keep informed of how the war progressed even though he’d insisted it was not something she need worry about. Anne had reminded him that it was her brother they were fighting and her knowledge of him and his way of thinking could possibly be of some help. Though he doubted her contribution, he had allowed her to begin sitting in on some of the meetings with Treville and the council, eventually allowing her to attend one or two in his place when he had not felt up to dealing with the mundane dealings of politics. Anne had proved to be a fitting substitute, keeping him informed without the need for him to have to sit through all those boring briefings the military minds loved to carry on about.

He much more enjoyed spending time with his son. Now that the Dauphin was walking and talking, he was great fun to play with and Louis reveled in every chance to teach him and show him the palace and all that would be his one day. He could already tell the boy would be a great king. He was smart, and curious and so full of life, it made Louis feel better just to be near him. 

He hadn’t told anyone about his constant coughs nor the tightness in his chest, at first thinking it was just a simple case of consumption that would pass when the warmer weather of summer arrived. But summer had come and gone and the ache had gotten worse. He knew he should inform his doctors, but knowing his family’s history had given him pause. He had been blessed to have escaped the family curse – unlike his half brother Phillipe whom he had made Governor of Paris. It was nice to have family near. It comforted him. And Philip was one of the few family members he could trust.

Anne was not as enamored with the man, and she did not approve of the Daupin being left alone with him, but Louis liked him well enough. He sat at his right hand as Treville briefed them on the latest developments.

“I suggest we send Captain Athos’ unit north to meet with General Lantier They can deal with the threat from Flanders while the new recruits and the bulk of the army hold the south. If we station men near Lille and Douai, I believe we can head the Spanish infantry off before it can make foothold in the territory.”

“Douaii?” Anne asked, clutching the silver cross she had taken to wearing around her neck. “Isn’t there a monastery near there?”

All three men looked to her with various expressions of curiosity, confusion and concern.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Treville hastily responded. “But I don’t believe it will fall into the path of the fighting. Besides I doubt your brother would consent to spilling blood on holy soil.” He gave her a grim smile. “I believe the monks will be safe for the time being.”

Anne returned his smile, a look of relief flittering briefly across her face. Louis frowned, unsure why his wife would be so concerned about some monks. He shook his head. Anne was always worrying about the innocents caught up in the war. He reached over and patted her hand, giving her a conciliatory smile. 

“I’m sure Treville is right, my dear. The monks will be fine.”

Anne nodded graciously in return, grasping his hand in her own. He turned back to the map, but not before he saw the flash of apology she directed toward Treville.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Louis stepped out of the carriage, his eyes wide as he took in the hustle of the men flittering about the Musketeer garrison. No one had taken notice of him yet, and he found himself able to watch as the young men ambled to and fro, brushing the big black horses that had been recently delivered and practicing their skills in the yard. Most of them seemed quite able to hold their own with swords and Louis had to admit the new men seemed ready to take their places amongst the soldiers in battle. 

With Governor Feron’s Red Guard taking the bulk of the responsibility for keeping order inside the walls of Paris, Treville had reluctantly agreed to allowing the more experienced Musketeer recruits to be commissioned and assigned to various units in the south to allow his seasoned men to be brought north to face the new threats. He had decided to stop by and see for himself, wanting to bathe in the gratitude of the men he allowed to become official members of his elite guard.

Madam d’Artagnan exited the small office at the top of the stairs, her attention on the sheaf of papers held in her hand as she started down. She made it to the first lading before she noticed the carriage just inside the archway. Her eyes widened when she saw Louis standing beside it.

“Your Majesty!” she called, effectively stopping all movement within the walls of the garrison. As the recruits fumbled over themselves to come to attention, Constance hurried down the rest of the steps and scampered across the courtyard, dropping to a bow directly in front of the King.

“Your Majesty,” she repeated, slightly winded from her dash. “It is an honor to have you here.”

“I felt the need to see the recruits for myself before giving them my leave to join the regiment,” he explained, his eyes darting from man to man. “Treville insists they are ready. Do you agree, Madam d’Artagnan?”

Constance rose, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. “I… um… Oh yes! Of course. The recruits have been working very hard, Your Majesty. Minister Treville is quite satisfied with their progress.”

Louis nodded, pleased that his presence still invoked such reactions of awe in his subjects. He looked around the wooden structures, wondering how these men managed to survive in such a dreary place. “And is there anything you might need, Madam? I would have the finest for my men.” He said it loud enough for the nearest soldiers to hear, having learned from Treville that it never hurt to let the commoners believe their King was looking out for them. He didn’t quite catch the woman’s response and waved a dismissing hand with a smile. “Of course, just let Trville know what it is you require and he will see to it.”

Constance nodded and stood quietly, expectant.

“Has there been any word from your husband?” Louis inquired. “Or his friends?” It wasn’t that he cared if the woman had been corresponding with d’Artagnan, it was a different piece of information he was after. “They are all fighting together, correct?”

Constance smiled sweetly. “I received a letter from d’Artagnan just this week.” She blushed. “He is well as are Porthos and Athos. I will let him know His Majesty asked after them when I write him in return. He will be pleased.”

“Of course he will,” Louis agreed. “But were there not four of them? What was the other one’s name? Aramis I believe?”

Constance nodded. “Yes, but Aramis is not with them. He resigned his commission before the war. He retired to a monastery.”

“Ah yes,” Louis pretended to remember. “It was near Douai, was it not?”

“Yes, your Majesty.” 

Louis’ smile hardened. “As I thought.” He turned abruptly and stepped to the carriage, waiting as the steward hurried to open the door. “Thank you, Madam,” he called back over his shoulder. “I will inform Trville to send a list of the new commissions.”

Without waiting for a response, Louis settled himself back into the carriage and ordered the driver to return to the Louvre.

Mmmmmmmmmmmm

**_Two years later still …_ **

Louis laughed as his son rode his pony along the path, leading his governess on a merry chase. He was a born horseman, his son, and his happiness shined in his eyes every time he laughed. Louis loved the boy with all his heart, but there were times his smile, his laugh reminded him of someone else. Someone who made his blood run cold.

Over the years he’d seen Anne gazing out across the gardens, idly playing with the cross she now constantly wore around her neck. He had started to push her away, unable to look at her, convinced of her guilt of betrayal. He had never confronted her about Rochefort’s accusations, Treville convincing him she had suffered enough at the hands of the Spanish spy and urging him to reconcile with her for the sake of the child and France. He had readily agreed at the time, knowing he had been hasty in his decision to have her executed, allowing Rochefort to play on his insecurities and almost making the biggest mistake of his life.

But was it a mistake? Was it all lies?

 

Over the years he had become convinced the former Comte’s allegations had substance – at least in one regard.

He saw the look of longing in her eyes, knowing it wasn’t for him. She had been a respectful wife, a dutiful Queen, a doting, loving mother, but he couldn’t find it in his heart to forgive her. It didn’t help that the ache had taken up permanent residence in his chest, his disease advancing far more quickly than his physicians had predicted. He hadn’t told anyone as of yet, commanding the doctors to remain silent, not wanting anyone to think him weak. 

He would have to tell Treville soon, the Minister needing to know why this war had to end sooner rather than later. He had planned to tell Anne, too. But not now. Not now that _he_ had returned.

The Musketeer. Aramis.

Treville had informed his of the Musketeers’ return to Paris late last night – Aramis along with them.

Apparently he was not cut out to be a monk – a revelation that should surprise no one.

He’d told Anne of their return that very morning hoping to garner a reaction. She had not said a word. Simply left the room quietly. Was that an admission of guilt? And what would he do if she did admit it?

He smiled as little Louis had hugged him from behind, his soft curls tickling his cheek.

“Are we going to play today, Papa?”

“Of course we are, my dear sweet boy,” Louis responded affectionately. “And I have a wonderful surprise for you.”

As the child squealed in joy atop his new mount, Louis let his eyes shift to his wife, standing on a balcony above the courtyard. She was smiling as she watched their son ride, but Louis couldn’t help but wonder if the smile was for someone other than the child.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

**_A few months later….._**

_“I slept with Aramis…”_

Louis had known it for a while, but was still surprised how actually hearing the words could stab at his heart. The Musketeer had all but admitted it when they had been alone in the crypt, and Louis had wanted his head then and there. But Feron’s death had forced him to realize he was not in a position to demand it. Hurting Aramis would hurt his son, and that was one thing he would not do.

_“He is the father of our son, but in blood alone…”_

Blood was all that really mattered. The child was not a Bourbon. Louis would leave no legacy, no heir. The boy’s laughter rang in his mind and Louis found his anger gone. He was out of time. He’d spent the last four years being angry, petulant, pushing Anne away for a mistake she had made out of loneliness and fear.

Aramis had been right. He had been trying to protect his king.

Did she still love the Musketeer? He didn’t dare ask, not truly wanting to know the answer.

Theirs was never a marriage based on love. It was duty. She had performed hers admirably.

It was true; they had been friends once. He had trusted her words, trusted her counsel. Did this all change because of one mistake?

He didn’t think he could forgive her, but he doubted she could forgive him either. They had both failed their vows, but was that so unexpected? As she stood before him, pleading, assuring him she would not let him be forgotten, he found he truly did believe her. Not matter who had planted the seed, the boy was his son – the only one he would ever know, a Bourbon in all but blood. Was that enough? Could this lie masquerade as reality?

He was sure Treville knew the truth… perhaps even the other three Musketeers… but they would never risk the truth becoming known for the sake of their friend. Was it for the best?

He looked into her blue eyes and saw compassion and honesty… and maybe even a hint of affection. 

For him.

And he found he could live with that.

And perhaps even be content to die with it.

_Fin._


	11. The Price of Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis spent an entire day trussed up at the mercy of Grimaud and his men… and he walked away unscathed? Maybe not… but do the others take notice?

_After all the Athos pain, I felt a bit cheated that Aramis was just fine after all he’d been through at Grimaud’s hands. Knocked out, strung up, pistol going off right by his ear… I thought for sure we were finally going to get some Aramis h/c… but no. Remedy needed._

**Episode 8 – Prisoner of War**

**The Price of Peace**

D’Artagnan slumped onto the bench opposite Porthos with a grunt of a hello. He grabbed a piece of bread from the tray in the center of the wood table and began to maliciously tear it into shreds.

Porthos watched, amused, as he finished the last of his porridge, wondering what could have the Gascon so irritable this early in the morning.

“Rough night?” he asked cautiously. Since they’d returned from the front, it wasn’t unusual for any of them to have nightmares; he’d had quite a few himself, and being buried under a pile of rubble thanks to Grimaud’s ambush hadn’t helped. But so far, he had been able to keep them from affecting his interactions with the others. Perhaps the whelp wasn’t as good at hiding his unrest.

“No,” came the petulant reply.

Porthos frowned and placed his spoon in the bowl, shifting it to one side as he leaned forward, ducking his head in an attempt to catch his friend’s eye.

“What’s wrong?”

D’Artgnan took a deep breath, then squeezed his eyes shut and tossed what was left of the bread to the chickens scuttling around the table. He blew out the air through his nose and rested his face in his hands.

“Constance didn’t come to bed last night.”

Porthos snorted a laugh. “She’s a busy woman, your Constance,” he soothed. “Runnin’ a garrison isn’t easy. Besides, she probably spent the night tendin’ to Sylvie. You know Athos isn’t much good in situations like that.” It was true. While the Captain had been understandably worried of the woman he had taken up with recently, there was little he could do to ease her pain outside of staying near and keeping her comfortable.

D’Artagnan rubbed his hands over his face then dropped them to lean against the tabletop, a sheepish grin on his lips. “I know. You’re probably right. It’s just I seem to sleep better –“ His words cut off abruptly and his eyes widened as something across the courtyard caught his attention.

Porthos twisted in his seat in time to see the woman in question quietly close the door of the room they used as a washroom, a small bundle of white cloth tucked up against her bosom. She hustled to a door a few paces down the hall and knocked once before opening it and disappearing inside.

“That’s Aramis’ room,” d’Artangan said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.

Porthos turned back to see anger simmering in the younger man’s eyes.

“That doesn’t mean anythin’, D’Artagnan.” They’d seen little of the marksman since they’d rescued him from Grimaud’s clutches. He’d been with them when they’d protected the Queen in the streets of Paris, but he’d disappeared soon after that and Porthos had been too angry with his reckless friend to wonder where he’d gone.

The Gascon’s eyes narrowed. “My wife is visiting another man’s room after staying out all night and you’re telling me it doesn’t mean anything?”

Porthos raised a hand. “I’m just saying you shouldn’t jump to conclusions is all. It’s Aramis –“

“Exactly.” 

Before Porthos could respond, the Gascon was up and storming toward the closed door his wife had just slipped through. 

“Shit,” Porthos muttered, pushing himself up from the table and hurrying after his incensed friend. He had barely caught up when d’Artagnan reached the door, kicked it in without hesitation and stomped inside. Porthos paused in the doorway, his brows rising at the tableau in front of him.

Aramis sat perched on the edge of his bed, Constance kneeling before him, smoothing his freshly laundered shirt against his chest. They bothj flinched at the sudden intrusion, eyes wide as d’Artagnan blew into the room like a thunderstorm. Pushing Constance back, the Gascon grabbed a startled Aramis by the pristine shirtfront and hauled him from the bed, shoving him back against the wall. He held him there, pressing his face close to the marksman’s.

“That,” he spat, “is my wife.”

Aramis latched onto d’Artagnan’s wrists, but did not try to pull his clenched fists off. Brows raised in surprise, he remained calm, his thin smile conciliatory. 

“As we are all well aware.”

Porthos rolled his eyes at the flippant response before stepping forward.

“Let him go, d’Artagnan.”

“d’Artagnan!” 

Constance’s sharp voice overlapped his and they both grabbed hold of the angry young man, forcing him to step back and release his captive.

Without the younger man’s support, Aramis slid down the wall, hissing in pain as one leg folded beneath him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Constance pushed her husband back into Porthos’ grip and dropped once again to her knees, guiding Aramis the rest of the way to the floor, brushing a lock of hair from his face. She turned back to glare over her shoulder. “Can’t you see he’s hurt?” she fired. “What kind of friends are you?”

Porthos had no idea how he had come to be included in her indictment, but he wisely kept silent in the wake of her wrath. He felt d’Artagnan tense, confusion overtaking his anger. He twisted back to glance at Porthos, but the big man could only shrug his shoulders, no more aware of what was going on than he was. It was obvious Aramis was in pain, but the cause was a mystery to him for the moment.

“Aramis?”

Porthos gaze shifted to the man sitting up against the wall and took a moment to study his old friend. There were fine lines of pain in the corners of Aramis’ eyes though he still smiled – which was now more of a grimace – as Constance’s hands hovered over him. Aramis grabbed one of them and squeezed it briefly. 

“I’m all right,” he assured her. “No harm done.”

“You’re sure?” she persisted. “Your leg?”

“Is still sore, but no worse than before.”

She called back without bothering to turn. “Help me get him back to the bed.”

Pushing d’Artagnan aside, Porthos approached and reached for Aramis’ arm, only to be met by a grunt of pain and a slap on his hand from Constance. “Not that way, you brute!” She shifted to place an arm around Aramis’ back nodding for Porthos to follow suit on the other side. Slowly they maneuvered the wounded man from the floor and helped him limp back to the edge of the bed.

Once he was settled, Constance turned to her husband who managed to look chagrined in the face of her fury.

“I saw… I thought…” he sputtered, but was quickly cut off.

“I know exactly what you thought.” She fisted her hands on her hips and glared. “I’ll deal with you later. Go.”

“Constance…” d’Artagnan tilted his head, his voice pleading, but Constance was immovable. 

“Go.” She pointed toward the door, her tone broking no argument, and with a huff of embarrassment or defeat – Porthos couldn’t tell which – d’Artagnan sulked out the door.

With a sigh, Constance turned back to the bed, ignoring the twin expressions of shock on the remaining two Musketeers’ faces. She dropped back to her knees in front of Aramis, her anger apparent as she fussed over his outstretched leg.

“Constance,” Aramis called, trying to catch the woman’s attention. Constance continued to mutter under her breath, the words ‘how dare he’ and ‘stupid fool’ the only two clear utterances Porthos could discern. He exchanged a wide-eyed look with the marksman and took a step back, holding up a hand, clearly indicating he was staying out of the proceedings for the moment.

Chuckling, Aramis cleared his throat and called to her again, finally gaining her notice as he placed a hand on the ones fluttering against his leg. “Constance,” he began once she looked up. “It’s fine. As I said, there was no harm done.”

“Just because you’re fine doesn’t make it all right.”

Aramis dipped his head in agreement. “D’Artagnan was only responding as any man would. He –“

“He’s an idiot,” she said, hotly. The fire in her tone had mostly burned itself out and she suddenly sat back against her heels, her shoulders sagging. “I can’t believe he would actually think I would – that you would –“

“He was only trying to protect what was his.”

“I am not his property,” she chided, her eyes flashing at the marksman.

“No,” Aramis acquiesced quickly. “But he still feels he must protect you.”

“From you?” Constance managed a laugh. She waved a hand at the Musketeer’s ruffled countenance. “You’re hardly a threat at the moment.”

“I don’t think he was concerned for your physical safety as much as your virtue.” Aramis grinned. “After all, I did have quite the reputation once.”

Constance snorted a laugh. “That was a long time ago, Aramis. Anyone who knows you can see you’re not that man anymore.”

“And d’Artagnan will come to that conclusion, also. It’s not easy to quell his Gascon temper, though he has made many strides in doing so.”

Constance nodded. “I know. It’s just,” she huffed another sigh. “He was gone a long time. I’m not used to having to explain myself to anyone.”

“Perhaps you can tell him that?” Aramis encouraged. “The two of you are far too good for each other to let a little misunderstanding such as this come between you.”

Constance smiled. “You’re right.” She shifted her gaze to Porthos who managed to not jump at the sudden attention.

“You think you could possibly find the time to sit with him for a bit while I go set my husband straight?”

The pointed tone and look of reproach she sent his way reminded him he probably had some apologizing to do himself. He nodded meekly in response.

“Good.”

Aramis offered her an arm as leverage, but she gently batted it aside, giving him an exasperated roll of her eyes. He chuckled.

“Try not to make him grovel too much.”

As soon as she was out the door, Porthos turned back to his friend and leaned against the wall. He raised his brows pointedly, crossing his arms on his chest as he waited for an explanation. 

“Constance was… concerned about my well being when we returned.” Aramis admitted. He slid back on the cot, shifting to pull his leg up and relaxed back against the pillows pushed against the wall.

“You were fine,” Porthos frowned. He forced himself to think back over the last day or so, trying to recall when Aramis could’ve been hurt. “At least you seemed fine after we got those chains off you.”

Aramis took a deep breath and seemed to sink back further into the pillows supporting him. “I was.”

“But?” Porthos prompted after a moment of silence.

“But… once I returned, I guess the rush wore off and my muscles began to stiffen and…” he shrugged. “Constance noticed I was having difficulty moving with my usual grace. You were all at the palace and as much as I wished to follow…” He shrugged, not needing to explain why his presence at an audience with the King was unwise.

He shifted on the bed, wincing as he bent his knee to get leverage.

“Your knee?”

Aramis rubbed his leg just above the joint in question. “Kicked by one of Grimaud’s men. Nothing serious, just badly bruised. Though it did swell some making if difficult to walk.”

Porthos nodded. “So Constance made you stay here. That explains why she was so adamant about us not seeking you out when we returned with Sylvie.”

Aramis face clouded with concern. “How is she? Athos?”

“They’re both resting. Constance did a good job patching her up. And Sylvie is one tough lady, she’ll be all right.”

Aramis nodded, relieved. “Good. I’m sure Athos is beside himself with worry.”

Porthos simply grunted in agreement.

“What about you?” he ran a knowing eyes over his friend. “Anything other than your leg you want to fess up about?”

Aramis’ shrug brought another wince of pain, which he tried but failed to hide from his friend’s calculating gaze.

“Shoulder?” Porthos assumed.

“Being strung up on a beam for the better part of a day has its repercussions.” Aramis closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. “Strained and sore muscles. It will pass.”

“I’m sorry.”

Aramis opened his eyes, frowning at this friend. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Porthos. It was my own stupidity that resulted in my capture.”

“True,” the bigger man agreed. “You should’ve told us. You should’ve told me.”

Aramis took a deep breath and slowly let it out through pursed lips. “And what would you have said if I had?”

“That you’re an idiot.”

Aramis grinned. “So you see why I neglected to inform you of my plans.” His attempt at levity fell flat and the smile dropped from his lips. “I was acting on orders from the Queen,” he explained. “I wanted to tell you what we were doing. I urged her to tell the King, but she did not feel the time right. I’m sorry, Porthos. I knew you would believe me thinking with my heart instead of my head.”

“I would’ve thought you thinking with a completely different part of your anatomy to be honest.”

The laugh broke free before Aramis could stop it. “Also, a valid concern, but ultimately just as wrong.”

Porthos smiled sadly. “She’s goin’ to be the death of you.”

Aramis sighed. “If it can put an end to this war, it would almost be worth it.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Constance entered their room, finding d’Artagnan sitting on the edge of the bed, forearms balanced on his thighs, head bowed in thought. She knew he was aware of her presence, and quietly moved across the room and dropped down beside him.

“I’m sorry.” Her husband’s voice was barely a whisper, but she didn’t miss the thread of shame weaving through it.

She smiled, leaning closer to push at his shoulder with her own. “You should be.” Her tone was just as soft, subdued, taking the sting out of the reprimand.

“I know,” d’Artagnan dipped his head further. “But when you didn’t come to bed last night and I saw you going into Aramis’ room… well, my mind just… I thought…”

“Do you actually think I would betray you like that?” She asked, saving him from his fumbling apology. “That Aramis would?”

d’Artagnan sat up and turned to her, taking her hand in both of his. “No. I don’t. And I have no excuse for my actions.” He looked up into her eyes and she could see the emotion swimming in their dark depths. “I can’t change what happened, I can only make sure it never happens again. I love you, Constance. With all my heart. I couldn’t do any of this without you.”

“Of course not,” she smiled. “And I love you, too. You have to trust that. No matter what.”

He dipped his head. “I do. And I promise I will never doubt you again.”

She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. “See that you don’t.” She arched her brows, her smile coy. “Besides, Aramis is hardly my type. He’s much too pretty. I prefer to be the pretty one.”

D’Artagnan snorted a laugh. “Then I will strive to be as homely as possible from now on.”

“Agreed.” She kissed him again, giggling as he pulled her closer, deepening the kiss. 

“Do you think Aramis will forgive me?” he asked when they came up for air.

“You’re thinking about Aramis right now?” she asked, amused. “Perhaps I should be the one who’s jealous.”

D’Artagnan chuckled, dipping forward to nuzzle his nose beneath her ear. “Aramis is hardly my type,” he quipped. “Not nearly pretty enough.”

Constance laughed. “Good answer. I may make a proper husband of you yet.”

He pulled her closer and pressed her back onto the mattress, his lips flickering over her neck, her cheek, and her body responded, overcoming the weariness of the long night. The sun was barely up, and there was so much to do, but she was quite content where she was, knowing that whatever they faced out there, they would face it together. Later.

**fin**


	12. Fathers' Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How hard is it to say goodbye to someone who taught you how to be a man?

_This one may have made me tear up a little._

**Episode 9 – The Prize**

**Fathers’ Day**

Aramis sat back on his haunches, numb, not feeling the strain on his legs and back, unable to think past the grief that was beginning to bubble up from deep inside. 

Treville was dead.

Gone.

His body still lay before them, his head cradled on the marksman’s thigh, but his spirit had already moved on. Aramis could feel the change. The Minister’s face was peaceful, almost like he was asleep, but the familiar features were slack, devoid of life and Aramis felt a burning in his chest he feared would never stop. He believed his heart literally breaking until he realized he needed to take a breath, that he’d been holding it since he slid to a stop, hoping beyond hope that the damage he knew was there was not as dire as he’d thought.

He gasped in a quick gulp of air, the oxygen burning his throat as he tried to swallow the distress he felt slowly seeping through his entire body.

This couldn’t be happening.

It wasn’t as if he was unfamiliar with death. He’d seen many a soldier fall in battle, prayed over and buried many a brother throughout his life. When the war came close to the monastery, the devastation was hard to bear, but he’d done what was required and used any means available to help lay the dead to rest.

But never had it been this hard.

Never had it been _family._

Despite the harsh words that had been spoken between them after he’d been rescued from Grimaud’s clutches, Aramis knew the Minister’s anger was equal parts disappointment and fear. Disappointment that Aramis had not come to him with the Queen’s plans; fear that one of his own had been put directly in danger that could’ve been avoided.

Aramis did not regret the attempt to broker peace, but he wished with all his heart he had spoken to Treville, been able to explain that he had wanted to inform him all along but could not, his silence requested by the woman he would die for and loved with all his heart.

He would’ve died for Treville, too. He’d proven that on many an occasion, following the former Captain’s orders without question. He knew Treville had trusted him – though the true motives of his game with Lorraine and Gaston had been hidden from all but a few including Aramis and the Queen herself.

But Aramis understood. 

Treville had placed the safety of the Duaphin above all else. He had orchestrated events to keep the boy safe and he’d given his life to make sure the future King lived to wear the crown.

The King.

His son.

Aramis would forever be grateful to Treville for what he’d done to save little Louis. His quick action had no doubt saved the boy from becoming a pawn in Gaston’s bid for the throne. Despite the fact the Dauphin had ended up in Grimaud’s clutches, Treville had paved the way for reconciliation with the Duke of Lorraine, the power behind Gaston’s threat, reducing the peril and allowing them the opportunity to keep the boy from harm.

He had no idea how Treville had managed such a coup. The Minister had kept his agenda to himself, trusting no one, taking no chances his plans would be thwarted. Aramis would have to ask Porthos for the details of what had happened in Lorraine’s camp later, once the pain of the fallout had lessened.

Porthos.

Aramis’ shoulders slumped further. The big man would be devastated when he found the cost of their mission.

Treville had been like a father to him. He’d been like a father to all of them, but especially to the Musketeer from the Court of Miracles. They had made it through the rough patch concerning Porthos’ true father and Treville’s part in his mother’s abandonment. He had accepted that his place in the Musketeers was of his own accord and not due to the Captain’s guilt. They had forged a deeper bond and Aramis feared what the loss would do to his friend. They would all feel the grief, but Porthos more than most.

A quiet sob hitched beside him and Aramis finally remembered he was not alone in his grief.

D’Artagnan stared at Treville’s cooling body, tears running unabashed down his cheeks. This was the second father the younger man had lost and it was obviously no easier than the first. He wanted to say something to temper the young man’s pain, but his words seem to have deserted him, his mind still reeling from the tragedy, unable to console himself let alone his brothers.

Looking up he found Athos standing guard in front of them. The Captain’s eyes were hidden in the deep shadow of his hat, but Aramis could see the shine of tears as Athos’ gaze shifted to meet his. The blue eyes reflected the pain Aramis felt, the devastation of the loss written on the swordsman’s normally impassive features.

The Captain swallowed, his eyes moving to once again look at the body of his friend before turning to assess their situation. Ever the professional, Aramis took strength from Athos’ demeanor, knowing that despite their anguish, there was still work to be done.

Duty before sorrow.

The smoke had cleared from the area in front of Lorraine’s tent, the bodies of the men responsible for Treville’s death lying still in the dirt. They had arrived in time to kill those who’d dared threaten the King, but they’d been too late to save the man to whom they owed everything.

To whom _he_ owed everything.

Aramis’ thoughts turned to his son. Porthos had spirited him off to safety, and it had been obvious the boy was still alive, but was he hurt? Frightened? Aramis longed to hold him, tell him he was safe, that he would never allow harm to come to him.

Treville had kept his plans from him, going so far as to order Athos not to inform him of the Dauphin’s whereabouts. Aramis knew the minister had the boy’s best interests at heart, but who better to protect him than his father? Treville had gambled with the Dauphin’s life, believing Aramis unfit to see to his safety. Despite his current grief, he could only hope the Minister had come to realize his mistake. 

Aramis was under no delusion as to Treville’s motives for keeping the Dauphin’s true parentage a secret. It had been for the sake of France, for the safety of the boy and the Queen. He had helped them take down Rochefort, but Aramis had felt Treville’s disappointment and it had been one of the deciding factors that had led to his retiring to the monastery. He never wanted to see that discontent in Treville’s eyes again, and knew that if he remained, it would always be there.

But Treville had a soft spot for the Queen, and Aramis knew the man would never betray her – not even to Louis himself. He would do all he could to keep her and her son safe. It was the only way Aramis could leave, knowing Treville and the others would be there to protect them when he could not.

And protect them he had. Treville had proven himself a true son of France, a true hero, a man Aramis could always look to with pride and trust. He had always been one of them – even when he’d been their captain, their minister, their leader. He was their fifth Musketeer, and their lives would be forever poorer without him.

Athos cleared his throat, the sound loud in the silence of the field. Aramis nodded, knowing they had work to do before they could take care of the dead. Grimaud had escaped yet again, but there were still men lying wounded, soldiers who needed to be looked after, remanded into custody. They still had their duty to perform. Just as Treville had taught them, what he would expect of them.

Aramis looked back down at the still face of the man they had all considered friend and so much more. Slowly, reverently, he traced the sign of the cross on his forehead, whispering words of prayer, hoping to ease him from this life into the next. 

Silently he added his undying gratitude for what had been done, for what had been saved. He would forever owe Treville his thanks, his very life. From one father to another, he vowed to live up to the example set.

fin


	13. Passion, Courage, Faith...Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Au Revoir Musketeers. Thank you for three great seasons of brotherly love.

**Episode 10 – We Are the Garrison**

**Passion, Courage, Faith… Love**

_What will we do now?_  
Face every challenge the way we always have,  
With great Passion; hearts that stay true to all they hold dear  
Courage; no matter how many enemies lay in wait for us  
Faith; that daylight will always follow the dark  
And Love, above all else 

**_Passion_ **

Constance tiptoed from the room she shared with her husband, smiling as she took a moment to gaze at his sprawled form, still relaxed in sleep. At times like this, when the sun was barely beginning to rise above the horizon and the garrison was quiet and peaceful, she could hardly believe this was her life.

Her marriage to Jacques had been tempestuous at best, but there had been moments of happiness. Not the heart clenching bliss she felt now, but times of contentment, when she had believed her life, though not perfect, was good enough. She had resigned herself to living the mundane life of a merchant’s wife; cooking, cleaning, sewing… all the duties young women were supposed to perform for their husbands. She had been… content then, but only until d’Artagnan had become part of her life. Little did she know how far from that world she would come.

Even having d’Artagnan off to war for those four long years hadn’t shaken her commitment to what they had, to what she knew they would have. If she was honest with herself, she’d known it from the moment they met. Never a believer in love at first sight, she’d tried to ignore the feelings he’d stirred in her with that first impulsive kiss in the marketplace, reminding herself she was a married woman, respectful and above all else honorable.

Though after a while, she’d convinced herself there was no harm in daydreams. In those dreams her Musketeer had never disappointed her, always there to make her feel as if she was the only woman in the world.

Constance’s smile widened. The reality had turned out to be so much better than any fanciful dream.

Quietly she pulled the door closed, turning on the landing to survey the peaceful courtyard of the garrison. While still not fully repaired, they had made great strides in returning it to its former glory, even adding new accoutrements such as a fully stocked infirmary and larger training facilities. The new recruits had arrived by the dozens and d’Artagnan had worked tirelessly to single out the men who understood the gravity of the position they sought to achieve. The regiment had been built on high standards, and he dare not disappoint or discredit the responsibility he’d been entrusted.

D’Artagnan had truly grown into his role these last six months. While it was still obvious he missed his friends terribly, he’d taken to rebuilding the garrison and the regiment with a fervor that would have exhausted most men. Whether it was to prove something to them or to himself, she hadn’t deigned to ask, but she could see the change the responsibility was creating in her husband, and she was in awe of the man he was becoming.

Honorable, assertive, commanding, so confident and sure, Constance couldn’t help but wonder where the impulsive, hot headed boy she fell in love with had gone. Not that she was complaining. Her husband was everything she’d ever dreamed of as a girl, and everything she had hoped for as a woman. How could she possibly ask for anything more?

As Captain of the Musketeers, he was a man who held the defense of Paris in his hands – and trusted her to share in it all. 

The new recruits had no problem taking direction from her, seeing how much faith their new Captain placed in his wife and how well they worked together. Somehow along the way, she felt as if she had become a Musketeer too, and despite the fact she didn’t wear a pauldron on her shoulder, the men d’Artagnan trained accepted her as such. It was a role she believed she had been born to, and nobody who knew her – knew them – would dare dispute it.

A shuffling came from behind and she smiled as warm arms wrapped around her waist. D’Artagnan drew her back against his bare chest, his warm breath in her hair.

“You left me,” he complained, sounding as petulant as a child. Constance had half a mind to push him away -- it wouldn’t do for the Captain of the regiment to be seen snuggling on the deck like a five-year-old. But the strong arms around her squeezed and she was lost in the affection she felt welling up inside her.

“I have work to do,” she said, hiding her smile. “No time to laze around in bed with a garrison to rebuild.” She turned, wrapping her arms around him, pressing her body against his. She smiled up into his sleepy eyes. “And neither do you.”

D’Artagnan grunted as he bent down to kiss her, sighing as he pulled away reluctantly. “Then I’d better get dressed.” He grinned, his brows bobbing up and down as he nuzzled at her cheek. “Unless you have a better suggestion?”

She shook her head, exasperated. “You’re insatiable.” She slapped a hand on his chest, pushing him back with a laugh. “And you have a meeting with the First Minister in an hour.”

D’Artagnan sighed. “Aramis was always the last to rise, and now he’s taking meetings at dawn.” He shook his head. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this.”

Constance shrugged. “Aramis is a busy man. But I’m sure you won’t turn down the offer of breakfast at the palace.”

D’Artagnan grabbed her and tugged her close. “I’d rather have breakfast right here with you.”

She shoved him back into the room with a laugh. D’Artagnan smiled, his eyes lighting with happiness as he bowed dramatically. “Whatever you say, Madame d’Artagnan.” He blew her a kiss before disappearing into their room to prepare for his day.

Muffled sounds from below told her Serge was beginning preparations for the day and she turned back to face the courtyard, a satisfied smile on her lips. The sun would soon be up, the men rising from their bunks, arriving from their homes, ready to physically and figuratively build a new Paris… and she was right in the heart of it. It was exhausting work. It left little time for building a family of their own, but she knew that would come in time. Right now, this was what they needed to focus on.

And she wouldn’t change it for the world.

 

**_Courage_ **

Porthos roamed the dark camp, firelight highlighting the exhausted faces of his men. It was quiet this time of night. The fighting had ceased for now, the powers that be working to stop the aggression and end the war. They were still on alert, sentries posted and tension high despite the tentative reprieve from the battles, and Porthos took the opportunity to walk among his men to see for himself the toll these last six months of war had taken. 

The men were tired, dirty and disheartened by the conditions and repercussions of the war. He was sure it was the same on both sides. He nodded at the men who looked up wearily from the flames to watch him pass, acknowledging their dedication with a grim smile. These midnight walks weren’t just for him, they were so the men could see him, gain strength from him. He hoped he had enough to spare.

He’d meant what he’d said to Elody before he’d left. He didn’t want to give up soldering. It was his life – the only thing he was really good at. If it wasn’t for the war, he would still be a Musketeer, patrolling the streets of Paris, making it safe for all who lived within her walls. It was all he knew, and if he was honest with himself, all he’d ever needed.

But now there was someone else – two someones he thought with a smile. He ached to see his wife’s sweet smile, to hold Marie-Suzette in his arms. He had confessed his fears about being a father to Aramis before his wedding. The marksman had told him that no man knows what kind of father he will be until he has the great fortune of becoming one; and then he can only do the best he possibly can. 

Porthos smiled, his friend had a way of seeing things in a clearer light than most people. They had only been a family for a short while, hardly time to get to know each other before duty beckoned him away, but Porthos knew with all his heart he would do whatever it took to return to them. To all of them.

“You’ll be back.”

He chuckled as Aramis’ voice filled his head.

He missed them.

Not just Elody and the baby, but his brothers as well. He had spent four long years missing Aramis and had just gotten used to thinking of the three of them as four again when he’d been sent back to the front. But this time he was here alone and not having his brothers by his side was something he had never expected to face.

He was surrounded by men; soldiers who looked to him for leadership, support and courage, but he’d never felt more alone. So many times he’d turned expecting a curt order from Athos, a pertinent question from d’Artagnan, a much-needed quip from Aramis, only to remember they were no longer at his back. How anyone could feel so isolated in a camp with a thousand men was beyond him, but he could not deny the sensation. For the sake of his men he had forced himself to shake off the melancholy and focus on the task at hand, but he was still painfully aware of the empty space where his three brothers should be.

The men were restless this night, murmurs rising on the smoke of the fires, rumors spreading that the end of the conflict was at hand. He knew the new First Minister was working tirelessly to bring about peace and he smiled, the thought of his old friend, dressed up in the finery his new role demanded. Porthos chuckled. It wasn’t that he didn’t think Aramis could pull it off – after all, the man could wear a monk’s robe and still turn the heads of the fairer citizens of Paris – but the trappings of the court were something he’d never had to deal with before, and Porthos couldn’t help but wonder how he was coping. Going from a monk to a Musketeer to the First Minister of France inside of a year’s time would be enough to cause anyone to stumble. But if anyone could keep his head straight with the changes, it was Aramis. He had searched his entire life for where he actually belonged. He didn’t find it in the monastery, and although Porthos knew he loved his life as a Musketeer, he’d always known his friend was destined for greater things. Now, with a chance to live his life close to the son he’d never be able to acknowledge, he hoped his friend had found some kind of peace. He prayed Aramis had found his place.

When he’d left for the monastery, Porthos had had his doubts. He’d never vocalized them, believing Aramis knew what he wanted, what he needed at the time. But unlike the three of them, four years had hardly changed the marksman. He was the same man – perhaps more tempered – but still following his heart, his conscience, no matter the cost. It was a trait Porthos had always admired even though it had cost them all dearly, but it was the one thing he could count on from his friend. Aramis would never surrender his convictions, and Porthos was counting on that to put an end to this war and bring him home. Bring them all home.

As he approached the southern most sentry, he tipped his head to the soldier – Beugard, he believed his name. He prided himself on knowing as many of the men under his command by name as he possibly could. It showed them he was more than simply their commanding officer, he was their brother in arms, something much more important under the strains of battle.

“Why don’t you go and get somethin’ to eat,” Porthos suggested. “I’ll take over for a while.”

“General?” Beugard wasn’t sure about relinquishing his post, obviously wondering what a man of Porthos’ rank was doing out there in the middle of the night.

“It’s all right,” he smiled. “I was a Musketeer long before I was a general. Sentry duty is somethin’ I’m more than familiar with.” He tilted his head as he reached out for the musket the soldier held. “It’s lookin’ to be a quiet night. Go. It’ll be fine.”

Unsure, the soldier handed over the weapon and moved back toward camp, casting glances back at Porthos until he disappeared into the dark.

Porthos chuckled, making himself comfortable on the large smooth rock the soldier had taken as his position.

Was he so different now, he pondered? Sure his armor showed his rank, and the men looked to him with awe and respect, but he didn’t feel any different. He was still Porthos.

Or was he?

Did Porthos truly exist without Athos, Aramis and d’Artagnan? Did any of them?

Though he believed Aramis would remain true to himself no matter the position he held, was it the same for the rest of them? 

D’Artagnan was now the Captain of the Musketeers. He had seen the way the lad had changed in the last four years, no longer the brazen, impetuous boy he’d been when he’d first forced his way into the garrison courtyard. He was a man – and a damn fine one. Porthos liked to think he had a part in that, that they’d all had a part in molding the brash farm boy into one of the most honorable and courageous Musketeers to ever wear the uniform. He would build a fine regiment; of that Porthos had no doubt. And when he returned to Paris, he would know it was safe under the Gascon’s watch.

It was Athos he’d worried about since leaving the city. The former Comte had thrown everything away once before, trying to bury who and what he was in a bottle. While he didn’t think it would happen this time, he was still concerned about how quickly the man had changed course yet again – although Porthos believed this change was for the better.

Sylvie seemed to bring out something inside Athos that he’d long repressed. It was like meeting him all over again. Smiling with such emotion in his eyes was something Porthos never believed he would see in his taciturn friend. And now that he was going to be a father, Porthos couldn’t be happier for him. He hated that Athos thought they needed to leave Paris, leave the life he’d built in order to build a new one, but perhaps the swordsman had taken a page from Aramis and learned to follow his heart. While it led him away for now, just like Aramis, Porthos believed it would eventually lead him back home.

As the thoughts of his friends, his family, filled his mind, Porthos realized he wasn’t as alone as he’d thought. Sure they were all far out of his reach for now, but they would be there, waiting for him with open arms upon his return. And for now, that was enough to get him through the night and look forward to the promise of a new day.

Whatever it may bring.

 

**_Faith_ **

Aramis’ gaze followed the boy as he ran through the gardens, nurses and governess giving chase. The child’s laughter rang like cathedral bells, warming his heart, his eyes misting with affection for the son he could never claim as his own.

Athos had been right. Even if he could never truly be little Louis’ father, he had already found a connection with the boy. He looked forward to his smile whenever he came into the room. Now that they were better acquainted, the young King had taken a liking to his new First Minister, freely showing him affection despite his governess’ looks of disproval. 

“A King should never invite such intimacy,” the stern woman had rebuked.

“But it’s Aramis!” the boy had countered, as if that explained everything. The Queen had smiled tolerantly, instructing the governess to allow him his childish tendencies for now. He would be schooled in diplomacy and etiquette soon enough, but for the time being, she wanted him to be happy.

Aramis had bowed to her, thankful for the small concession. After six years of watching from afar, every moment he had to get to know his son was worth more than all the gold in the world.

Of course, his new duties as First Minister left far too little time to indulge his desires; the war with Spain and the negotiations for peace were much too important to disregard even for a moment. The Queen had been conversing diligently with her brother, neither, it seemed, wanting to continue the fight for much longer. Phillip had made concessions and now that Louis was gone and Anne named Regent, the Spanish monarch had little desire to see his sister defeated and had offered terms for peace. Though they were still deep in negotiations, Aramis hoped they could find enough common ground to end the fighting and bring the men along the front on both sides home alive.

Thoughts of the fighting, as always, brought Porthos to the forefront of his mind. He missed his friend and couldn’t help fear for him. But he’d meant what he’d said the day they’d said goodbye; he knew he’d be back. Porthos didn’t leave. It wasn’t in him. And now, with a family to come back to, he had every confidence his friend would return fit and whole and ready for whatever new challenge he faced.

It was Athos he wasn’t so sure of. The man Aramis had come back to after four long years was not the same man he’d known before. This Athos was more open, less stringent, a change Aramis had been thrilled to see. Though he stilled wondered at Sylvie’s choice, he couldn’t help but admit, the young woman had been good for his friend, her gentle heart opening his to love again – something Aramis was more than happy to see transpire. 

If only his own heart could be so free.

He sighed, his eyes dropping from the scene before him, forcing his despair down where it belonged. He had no cause to complain. He no longer had any want that could not be filled. Life at the Louvre had taken a bit of getting used to – servants following him, bowing to him, asking if they could bring him anything to make him more comfortable. It had taken months to get them to stop.

Though he knew it was a sign of respect for his new position, it made him uncomfortable to have anyone at his beck and call. He’d not been raised with this type of luxury and had little need of it. He’d spent four years in a monastery, rising with the sun, toiling in the gardens and educating the orphans of the war when he wasn’t kneeling on the hard stone of the chapel praying for God to enlighten him. He had let go of almost everything that bound him to his material life – save for the jeweled cross gifted to him by the Queen. Knowing it was originally a gift to her from Rochefort should have tainted the talisman, making it something he would be eager to be rid of. Instead, it was a tangible reminder of what his decisions had wrought, and the devastation his base desires had inflicted upon those he loved. 

He touched the cross around his neck, bringing it to his lips. Even now the trinket kept him from desiring that which he could not have. A simple reminder that he was lucky to be able to be a part of his son’s life, and to wish for more was a prayer that would forever go unanswered.

Knowing he had a meeting with d’Artagnan, he reluctantly dragged his attention from the scene before him and moved to the stairs that would take him to his offices in the east wing of the Louvre. While he knew the Captain of the Musketeers would understand his need to be with the boy as long as possible, there was still the job of rebuilding the regiment to attend to, and he would give his friend every assistance to make it so.

As he rounded the stone wall leading to the path, he stopped, mesmerized by the beautiful sight awaiting him on the other side.

Anne looked resplendent in a silky white dress, her hair glowing in the early morning sun. Her pale eyes sparkled as she took a step closer and he found himself speechless, his breath caught in his throat as she drew near.

It was the first time he had seen her in anything other than black since Louis had died. She had observed her duty, the wife in mourning, and he had respectfully kept his distance from her, knowing his feelings for her were impossible to disguise and not wanting to allow any rumors to stain her regency. It had been the hardest thing he’d ever had to do, forcing himself to hide his heart, convincing himself it could never be free again.

“No more black?” Aramis stepped back, eyeing the white dress that draped beautifully down Anne’s body. It was a stark change from what she had been wearing all these months in mourning, dutiful and respectful to her husband’s memory.

“No more black,” she smiled. 

Aramis was frozen to the spot, his eyes holding hers as she stepped gracefully down the stairs, closing the short distance between them. He tensed as she pressed her hand to his chest, unsure of how to respond. This was everything he’d ever wanted but he didn’t trust himself to read her intent.

“I am through mourning,” Anne whispered, close enough to feel her breath on his cheek. “I am a widow, Aramis. And you, I believe, have never been married. This is no longer a sin.”

Aramis swallowed, his heart racing beneath her burning touch. “No,” he agreed. “Not a sin. But I fear it a dream. One I wish to never wake from.”

Anne leaned forward, brushing her lips across his. “It’s a dream I share.”

She pressed her lips to his and he responded, taking her into his arms and holding her close. As the kiss deepened, he felt a part of himself finally fall into place.

As they broke apart, he suddenly remembered his meeting with d’Artagnan and stiffened, causing her to frown.

“Aramis?”

He brushed the back of his hand across her cheek, erasing the frown, smiling down into her eyes.

“It’s nothing. I have nowhere I’d rather be.”

D’Artagnan would wait. What’s more, he would understand. He had told Aramis to have faith that everything would work out exactly how it was supposed to. Aramis had never believed the Gascon’s words would come true. Perhaps he should listen to his Captain more often.

 

**_Love, above all else_ **

 

“Where were you?”

Athos startled, the hand that had been softly caressing Sylvie’s swollen stomach, faltering as his attention snapped back to the present. “What? Oh, I was… thinking…”

“Of them?” She smiled, knowingly, not the least bit put out that he had drifted from their quiet, intimate setting.

“You know me too well.” He had taken most of the day, composing a letter to Aramis, informing his old friend that they had settled in Piñon for the time being until the birth of their child. He knew out of all of them, Aramis would understand his need to vent his fears and concerns, and could almost see the marksman’s smile as he read the words Athos had spilled onto the page concerning his impending fatherhood and the terror it invoked within him.

He’d asked how Porthos was faring. Rumors were swirling that the Queen had been able to come to terms with her brother, the fighting no longer taking lives on either side of the struggle. He’d no doubt Aramis had played a role in the peace – pleased he’d accepted the Queen’s proposal, serving France with his tactical and ecclesiastic knowledge rather than his sword. 

He’d also inquired after the garrison and d’Artagnan’s new crop of Musketeers. He had little doubt the Gascon would make them proud, and he hoped his rise in rank would serve them all well. 

“I know you miss them.”

Athos sighed and nodded, unable to deny the truth of the statement. “They have been my constant for so long, probably the only reason I am still alive today and not drowned in wine in some broken down tavern in Paris.”

Sylvie shook her head. “I can’t imagine you allowing yourself to go down that road.”

Athos huffed a laugh. “Trust me, I am a much different person now than I was then.”

“Thanks to them?” She was quite intuitive, probably one of the many reasons she had so easily captured his heart.

“In part.”

She shifted, moving her head so that she could gaze up at him from where it lay on his shoulder. “Tell me about them,” she invited. “They’re your family. I want to know them better.”

Athos hesitated, the longing in his heart for his friends something he had hoped to keep hidden from her. He had made her a promise – a vow – and like Aramis, he felt the need to keep that vow at all costs. Would letting her see how much he missed them make her feel as if she was forcing him to leave his life behind? It wasn’t true, of course. He had made the decision to go, to give them and their child a fresh start without regret. But no regrets didn’t mean he couldn’t miss what – and who – was no longer an arm’s length away.

“D’Artagnan will make a fine Captain,” he began, the Gascon’s face coalescing in his mind’s eye, making him smile. “He was nothing but a rash boy when he first arrived at the garrison.”

“To kill you.” At his look of surprise, she shrugged, a sheepish smile gracing her lips. “Aramis told me.”

“Aramis is quite good at telling stories.”

“He said d’Artagnan was instrumental in saving you.” She rested her head back against him, one hand playing with the ties to his shirt. 

“He was. And we all saw the potential in him then. I always said he could be the best of us all. Since that day, he’s done nothing but prove me right.” He tilted his head, letting it fall to rest on her hair. “Four years of war changed him; made him stronger, made him into a fine soldier, a fine man. Somehow, through it all, he held on to his passion for life, his decency, his desire to right the wrongs of the world. And he has Constance there to keep him from wallowing in the regrets every soldier eventually has to face.”

“She’s fierce.” He could hear the smile in her voice. Sylvie and Constance had bonded almost instantly. Athos had presumed it was because each could see the goodness in the other.

“Yes. Quite. And together they can accomplish anything. I have no doubt they will rebuild the garrison and the Musketeers into the finest fighting forces in all of France.”

“And Porthos?” Sylvie prompted after a moment of silence. “I know you fear for him being back in the thick of the fighting.”

Athos grunted in acknowledgement. “Porthos is courage personified. If anyone can come out of this still true to himself, it’s Porthos. And now he has Elody and the baby to give him a reason to make sure he does return.”

“They’ve known each other such a small amount of time. Do you think that will be enough?”

Athos couldn’t help but smile. “Porthos guards his heart carefully. He let Elody in without a struggle. I believe that means she is worthy of him.”

“But you still worry for him?”

“Porthos had a tendency to throw himself into the fight, forgetting all else, but I believe knowing he has a responsibility back in Paris will be enough to temper that. He’ll be all right. I have no doubt he will distinguish himself before the war is done and people will speak his name with reverence.”

There was another moment of silence, Athos reluctant to continue, lest his true unease come to light. 

“So if it isn’t d’Artagnan or Porthos that has taken your concern, it must be Aramis.”

“Aramis has always taken most of my concern.”

She laughed at the dry delivery, tilting her face back up to frown in confusion. “But he’s safe. Better protected than any of you now.”

“Aramis’ greatest enemy has always been himself.”

“You don’t think he’ll be a good First Minister for France?”

Athos shook his head dismissively. “I think he will be one of the best men to ever lead the country.”

“Then what? Why do you get such a look in your eyes when you think of him?” He avoided her gaze, knowing that even though both Aramis and the Queen were now safe, there were still secrets that should never be shared. Again, Sylvie read his thoughts as if she had taken up residence inside his head. “You can’t tell me.”

He sighed, finally meeting her eyes. “I don’t want there to be secrets between us.”

“But some secrets need to be kept.”

He nodded, reluctant. “Yes. Some are… some are secrets of life and death. Things that can never be known for the sake of France.”

“This has something to do with Aramis and the Queen doesn’t it?” He didn’t know why he was still surprised when she was able to read things so clearly. He was beginning to believe the woman was clairvoyant. Sylvie laughed again, the sound like the tinkling of bells to his ears. “Don’t look so surprised. Gossip travels.”

He chuckled and they settled back down, both watching the flames dance in the fireplace. He really wanted there to be no secrets between them. If they were to forge a life, a united front for their child, he should be able to tell her anything. But this was not his secret to tell. He tried to imagine what Aramis would say, what advice he would give under these circumstances. 

“If I tell you this, you must swear to never repeat it to anyone. Ever.”

She looked up at him, her eyes dark, solemn. “I swear. On the honor of our child.”

He smiled, his hand on her stomach stilling as she folded her own over it. “I know you to be a woman of your word.” He took a deep breath and settled back, his eyes on the fire once again, his voice hushed as they were in a church. “If you heard gossip from Paris, then you’ve heard the rumors, about Aramis and the Queen.” He posed it as a statement, but waited for her nod to continue. “It’s true.”

“I thought so.” She smiled. “It’s the way he looks at her. A woman can tell. The Queen is now a widow, and who she consorts with is no longer anyone’s business but her own.”

“If only that were the end of it.” Athos took a breath, pausing to consider how to say the rest, but once again, she read his mind.

“The Dauphin?”

He sighed and squeezed her tighter, shaking his head in wonder. “You are quite insightful.”

She shrugged, laughing. “It’s a gift.”

“One that serves you well.” His mirth quickly abated as he remembered how hard he had tried to keep Aramis from compounding his mistake. “I spent so much time trying to force Aramis to ignore the child, to wipe it from his mind and move on as if it had never happened. I didn’t know until now just how impossible that would be. I see our child growing inside you and I am overwhelmed by the feelings of love and devotion – and I haven’t even met him yet.”

“Or her.”

“Or her.” He amended, contrite. “But Aramis, he was faced with a child, a son, he could never call his own. Right there, for all the world to see. How impossible a position he’d been in, and I had no way to fathom the depth of it. I failed him then. But I hope I was able to help give him a little of what he longed for.”

“It was you who suggested he be chosen for First Minister, then wasn’t it?”

“It didn’t take much persuasion,” he admitted. “I believe her Majesty wanted Aramis from the start, but was afraid of the possible repercussions. The rumors of their affair did damage, and she was desperate to avoid making it worse for the sake of their son. But, as you said, she is no longer married to the King. If she wants to have a relationship with Aramis, she should be able to. I believe the people of France will approve of a Musketeer despite the past rumors. Especially one who is now First Minister and who places the needs of Paris and its citizens first.”

“Do you think the two of them have come to the same conclusion?”

He fervently hoped so. Athos had recommended d’Artagnan to replace him, hoping Aramis had not seen it as a slight, but insistence that he look favorably upon the Queen’s offer. Luckily, the marksman had already made his decision. “Aramis is one of the most intelligent and passionate men I’ve ever known – when he is not getting in his own way. I am confident they will work it out.”

“Then there’s really nothing to worry about is there.”

Athos sighed, realizing she was right. Again. Evidently he was going to have to get used to that. 

“No, apparently not.”

Athos never dared to believe any of them would live long enough to find a happy ending. Glorious death in battle, fighting for King and Country, dying by the others’ sides was the best he had hoped for. Bound together by honor, none of them had truly ever given light to the thought of anything more. But now, perhaps, they had all found their true paths, separate for now but forever tied together… one for all, and all for one.

 

**_Finis_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who travelled with me through these missing scenes and codas. I hope they have helped smooth out the season for you as they did for me. I may add to these if I get inspired down the road, but for now, this is a fitting end. Now back to work on the other stories I have partly finished!


End file.
